


Can I play with madness?

by BlackandPinkUnicornGuardian



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU from ADWD/TWOW, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Betrayal, Blood Magic, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Tyrion, Dragonriders, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fantasy, Foreplay, Friendship, Humour, Intrigue, Iron Maiden - Freeform, Jon Snow is King in the North, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Love, Magic, Masturbation, Multi, No rape descriptions, Older Man/Younger Woman, Other, Passion, Politics, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, R plus L equals J, Romance, Sarcasm, Sci-Fi, Sex, Sex Positive, Slayer, Smut, Tenderness, War, Warg Jon Snow, against sexism, asoiaf/got, dragon riding, esoteric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-08-20 05:25:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8237642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackandPinkUnicornGuardian/pseuds/BlackandPinkUnicornGuardian
Summary: Many humans on Planetos are playing with madness, in different ways and forms. Some of them probably never wanted to. Others chose to play with it. Others want to master it, or to stop it. Too many simply are caught in it, and have to play with it or die without even trying. A small House is caught in the awakening of magic as well as in the game of thrones, in both cases thanks mainly to their liege-lords, but also in good part thanks to other Houses with a certain affinity to magic, power, or both. How will House Mormont fare in this madness? Better than the Starks, than the Targaryens? What are the elusive Reeds and Hightowers doing? Let us follow (almost) all of our characters from the ASoIaF world in this journey through madness…anyway, we will pay more attention to the fates of Jorah, Alysane and family. Because one hero - or two, or three for all that matters - is not enough when things start getting out of hand, no matter what legends tell. Ask the Children of the Forest, if you don’t believe me. [Book-verse with show!Hardhome and some show!stuff here and there. More information in the notes at the beginning of the prologue]





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Mainly book universe, I only take a few good ideas from the show, like the show!Hardhome storyline (which you can copy and paste into this universe). Of course, Season 6 left a few marks on my imagination as well, and also confirmed R+L=J. Other than this, AU and alternative timeline from the end of ADWD and some of the few chapters of TWOW we already know. Some characters will be just mentioned, because I don’t want to go mad (at least no more than I already am).  
> A Mormont-centric fantasy fic with sci-fi contamination. Esoteric/magic, humour, romance and passion, porn with plot (I will warn when it goes really pervert), some inspiration from history 1880-1945, or from the mythology I grew up with, and whatever makes me tick. Featuring also “virtual soundtrack”, meaning suggestions for music to listen.  
> Feel free to imagine show!Jorah instead of book!Jorah, of course. I know how hard it is not to think of insanely handsome Iain Glen! Anyway, the picture of Jorah featured on his “A wiki of Ice and Fire” page (http://awoiaf.westeros.org/images/a/af/Jorah_Mormont.jpg) is how I picture book!Jorah, and therefore will be the image I bear (LOL) in mind while writing. A tall and muscular man, his hair slightly receding and a small bald patch barely visible on the top of his head…not a canonically/conventionally handsome man but a man you can be attracted to, especially if you grow up and stop fancying only pretty boys. Yes, Daenerys, I am thinking about you right now.  
> Finally, a disclaimer: I am not GRRM, neither am I D&D/HBO, I own nothing, I only borrow stories and continue them with my own style, my ideas and my imagination! In addition, I thank GRRM, JRR Tolkien, and all the music masters who inspire me.  
> I am not a native speaker, so if you are one (and master your own language in grammar and style) feel free to suggest improvements!  
> Guess where the title for the fic comes from?

_He lifted his eyes and saw clear across the narrow sea, to the Free Cities and the green Dothraki Sea and beyond, to Vaes Dothrak under its mountain, to the fabled lands of the Jade Sea, to Asshai by the Shadow, where dragons stirred beneath the sunrise._

_A Game of Thrones, Bran III_

 

They had beaten him again until they had no strength left in their arms, until he almost had no life in him again.

Sounds died out. As usual, the bastards stopped only inches away from death.

Was it really the end, this time?

Lying in his own blood, unable to raise his head and open the slits he still had somewhere on his face to look at the walls of Meereen, Jorah tried to keep thinking of the only reason he had not to simply let go of his life and be done with the pain, with the self-deprecation, with the continuous bad choices, with everything. He didn’t have to look at the city walls to keep that reason in mind.

_Daenerys_. She was so near, and yet so unreachable. But he had to hold on: he had survived much; he could survive still and overcome more than he already had. His only hope was to begin another day after passing out. Every day could bring him closer to her, to her service, maybe to her forgiveness, or at least to a death in her service, for her service.

He inhaled and exhaled, trying to make his nerves relax and his pain subside. He then fell on the floor, knocked out cold. He didn’t even notice it: it just happened.

_Jorah Mormont, son of Bear Island._

A voice, somewhere, from somewhere. A soft Northern tone, like that of children playing at a harvest fair so many lives of his ago. Maybe a dream? A memory from a happier past? Talking of the two things he loves most, his lost homeland and his beloved Queen. Was he hallucinating? He probably was.

_You are a son of the North, yet you chose the dragon. Why her?_

_“I love her_.”

_You know that winter is coming, don’t you, Jorah Mormont? You know what’s beyond the Wall? Your father saw._

A shiver went through Jorah. Memories of old tales seemed to take shape and life in his mind. Silvery shadows danced a macabre dance on the remains of men, women and children. Then they looked at a white glistening barrier. The Wall!

_“Who are you? And what do you know about my father? And about my liege-lord in Westeros?”_ whispered Jorah, or at least he thought he whispered in his head.

_I am not a dragon, yet I can fly too, and I can see far away. I saw you, I saw your Queen, I saw your dragons. As I saw your island, your kin._

_“Where is my father? How is he? And my family? Tell me, show me”._

The answer did not let him wait: _Your father left you yet another task. This time you cannot fail him. You will have to find a way. It does not have to be his way, but it does not have to be only the tale of a faithful knight fighting for his lady either. Your love for and her throne will not be worth anything if we do not fight the real war._

The boy with wings and eyes that could see so far away took the bear away from the stinking slave market outside the walls of Meereen, and brought him back home, and even further north, to show him what bears and wolves should have never forgotten in the first place.


	2. The trooper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Picks up from the moment Jorah kills the Yunkish nobleman and the Second Sons go to battle for Daenerys, in the Tyrion chapter of TWOW (right now it’s a preview: don’t panic! Reading it would be quite useful in order to understand this chapter of mine).  
> Tyrion and Jorah have been developing a friendlier relationship than before, but a battle can put a strain on the “relationship” itself, especially when the two of them have their own differences. However, in a world where magic is awakening, a third factor can change relationships in a quite surprising way...this is the case for our little giant and our bear! Ready to follow them?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Typos? Signs of multiple corrections managed badly or hastily? That taste of something written by a non-native speaker? Feel free to help by leaving a few notes in the comment section. I promise I will recruit beta- and proofreaders soon! Any other feedback will be appreciated as well, of course.

_Krakens._

He was definitely _not pleased_. Not that what pleased him usually mattered, as far as fate, or the Gods - or whatever forged the destiny of the world and of men, he still had no idea what it was - were concerned. So far, he had gotten used to seeing the worst possible scenario unfold in front of him, and he had begun to think he was increasingly becoming _good_ in dealing with misfortune and disasters.

This time, however, “fate” had determined he would have to fight side by side with the Ironborn. He felt the butt of every God’s joke. Fortunately, they would be joining battle in short: among steel, sweat, shit and blood, there would be no time for thinking.

 “Mormont?”

The Imp, who had successfully adjusted his breastplate with Penny’s help, tried to shake him out of his deep thoughts.

“Jorah Mormont…unless your supreme military mind is conceiving some superior scheme that will lead us swiftly to victory, I am afraid I would like you to stick to being a brute to Yunkish visitors. Or to the assertive role you took upon you, as a commander-to-be of the Second Sons. No sullen silences. You are not pretty enough to make me stand for that kind of behaviour.”

 _Always talking thrice as needed, the little Lannister lordling._ Jorah grunted, then took a good look at the little Lannister, another one at the men gathering around them, finally another one at his longsword – summarily cleaned from the blood – and got back to brooding.

 _A grunt. That was all I got out of the Bear_. _I suppose I must be glad he did not hit me, or – worse - kiss me._

Tyrion was worried for himself, felt sorry for Penny, and was above all worrying _very, very much_ about the green dragon still flying above the bay. Brooding was not a pastime he wanted to indulge in, especially considering that he hadn’t had enough wine for his taste. Having to endure his own thoughts sober was unbearable. It had almost ended up badly previously. There was only one way to deal with Jorah’s attitude…

 

“I hope this _enthusiastic mood_ is not how you intend to cheer, serve and honour our gracious and beloved queen!”

“My **_sword_** is how I cheer, serve and honour Daenerys.”

Tyrion had to stop himself from bursting into laughter – an improvement, indeed, when compared to the outcome of his previous conversations. It was evident the man truly and honestly meant the longsword he just blooded, and maybe his undoubted strength as a warrior, in a clumsy attempt at poetry, but…did he realise the loaded statement he just spoke out?

 _No, he did not_ , Tyrion thought after watching him for a little while. _I bet deep down you think a lot about what your sword could do for her, Ser Bear the Mighty._

“I often think about how charming and exciting your kin, your people and their everyday life on that Gods-forsaken island amidst ice and even more ice you come from must be, compared to the rest of Westeros”

Mormont, finally, reacted almost pleasantly to the merciless japing, confirming Tyrion’s idea of a general improvement of the usually sullen knight and botcher: a small grunt bordering on a suppressed laugh came out of his bear-like throat, and his reply as well:

“I would have thought Tywin Lannister could afford better education for his children than that: we also have bears, woods, and moss.

Anyway, you might discover that what causes our lack of charm also gave us our expertise in matters that could be relevant for us in the next hours.”

Jorah Mormont’s mouth being the source of such words made the young Lannister worry _very, very much_. The way he started to understand his former kidnapper and current companion, the knight was, once again, dreaming of being the hero without even noticing it, as Tyrion supposed was Jorah’s main flaw. Remembering Ser Bear’s fists, though, he kept himself cautious:

“ _Jorah_ , if being admitted to Brown Ben’s tent is something that is very important for all of us, I don’t think it is necessary to do much more than surviving this day. Do you mean to try repeating your madness of Pyke? We do not even have a mad red priest with a sparkling sword to follow... Try it for once:  surviving, calculating, and scheming.  Even Robert could not make his way to a long life with his warhammer. Ponder this: you might actually live to tell the tale of our adventure to Queen Daenerys yourself, if you are careful today” he said with a grin.

“ _Tyrion_ , the only time I tried to scheme and make a profit out of something I lost my lordship, my home and almost had to give up my head as well.”

“So, you have some humour in you, after all. One more reason not to end your life in the sands of Meereen”.

However, Jorah, in his brooding, took a good look at Rhaegal, still circling above the bay. As much as he believed that Daenerys was in full control of Drogon, and that she was alive and would be back soon, he didn't have much faith in the fact that somebody else in Meereen would be controlling the other two dragons. Being caught in some indiscriminate burning on the battlefield wasn't the way he wanted to go.

Brown Ben Plumm put an end to everybody’s reasoning, or brooding: “It’s now time to go pick up the Queen’s gratitude.”

\---

Another battle. Nothing new to former Lord, disgraced knight, recurring sellsword Jorah Mormont. His experience, his force, his size, his will to fight for Daenerys were precious assets on the battlefield, and it showed again. Flirting with death, or dancing with it, was not his style: his was, instead, that of a man who wanted to go always one step further, hoping to arrive where he wanted to. If he had to mow men down by the hundreds to go forward, so be it. His size and strength were behind every single move of his sword; his mind was bent on survival. One instant longer, one day longer, one year longer, it did not matter.

However, when the Second Sons reached the centre of action, enclosing the Yunkish forces between themselves and the Ironborn, Rhaegal changed his behaviour and started a slow, controlled but clear descent. Was it a good thing or a bad thing? The most likely way to interact with a dragon was probably that of the unwilling piece of charred meat, caught in his indiscriminate fiery rage. Considering that he had not seen the dragons in a while, and that his departure from their mother’s court had not been exactly a peaceful farewell between two friends, he had further reasons to worry about the beast’s actions.

His questioning gave way to a feeling of certainty - and despair, a lot of despair - when the green dragon almost gracefully started to descend, and Jorah noticed he would not find himself so far away from where Rhaegal would land.

Instead of a reunion with a pardon as he had dared to dream, instead of a – possibly – clean cut on his neck by Strong Belwas as he sometimes dreaded, he was probably going to be roasted in his mismatched armour, considering the way all of his enterprises seemed to end. “At least, it might be Daenerys will know that I was fighting for her, again, holding to my oath”, he thought, watching enemies and companions try to steer away from the big greenish shadow approaching.

Although…he had survived several wars, he had fled Ned’s justice, he had even kept his head on his neck after being uncovered as a former spy. Therefore he tried all his best to avoid being in the dragon’s proximity, but did not seem to be lucky enough. Jorah Mormont started accepting that this might really be the end.

Rhaegal landed about ten meters from him, facing him. He felt the air, he felt the heat, he heard the thud of his talons. His despair gave way to a different feeling: he was in awe of how bigger the dragons had become, judging from this one – and this wasn’t even Drogon, the biggest of the trio. After all, he had practically picked their mother and them out of the remnants of that pyre, and he felt like seeing his children or nephews again after some time.

Anybody, not just Tyrion, would say that staying there admiring a dragon was a stupid thing to do. But so had been selling two poachers to fund his former wife’s lifestyle, after all…

Rhaegal simply adjusted himself on the field, and after a few instants directed his snout and his gaze on him. 

Jorah didn't have time to think. Another part of him than his brains took charge and cleared out fear and worries: he simply reacted instinctively, looked at the dragon in his eyes and shouted “ _Rhaegal!_ ”

Rhaegal moved a little and snorted. His tail swept away a few men on the battlefield, his mighty paws adjusted and made the sands fly. Other men fled, as quickly as they could, taking advantage of the terror that had made the majority of them stop fighting each other. Jorah registered in the back of his mind that the beast was quite nervous, but still hadn’t roasted him. Something had changed inside him from the moment his gaze and Rhaegal's had crossed each other. Did the dreams - or hallucinations - he had while in the cage have anything to do with this? He couldn’t know, he wouldn’t know. He stayed there, looking at him almost with pride, and felt a connection. “ _Rhaegal. We fight for the Queen_ ”.

After a few moments, Jorah remembered that they were on a battlefield, and that they were both likely to be killed if they kept staring reciprocally at each other like that. They were lucky the other participants were probably shortly shocked as well, or they would have already been pierced by swords – in his case – or spears – in Rhaegal’s case -,  or maybe arrows.

He soon had to raise his sword again to fend off a Yunkish soldier who had recovered from the general shock before the others. He had felt their movement instinctively, and showed no mercy. “Rhaegal…”he wanted to warn the beast, as soon as the man lay in a pool of his own blood…

He didn’t have time to finish the sentence, because the beast itself turned, moved forward and smashed away a few men that tried to throw spears at him. Others were caught in his fiery breath, a reminder that, on the battlefield, there was seldom a match for dragons.

And then Rhaegal moved back towards Jorah, picking up a man whose crime was the desire to engage in a clash with the knight. The dragon cut him in half, and threw one of the halves away.

Jorah did not know what to think of it. The lack of control on the dragons had been one of the matters Daenerys and him would have had to solve in order to lead on the quest for the Iron Throne successfully, if she had not exiled him. On the other hand, he also _knew_ Daenerys had flown away from Meereen on Drogon’s back, and was somewhere with her dragon.

Soon the feeling of a connection was suddenly there again.

“ _Rhaegal. I serve you and your mother until the day I die. Now serve with me_ ”

The dragon seemed to recognize him and listen to him. He could try doing something.

He braced himself, inhaled and approached Rhaegal’s flank.

And mounted him, as if he were a horse, while saying: “Rhaegal, now I am your rider. We will fight together”.

A strange feeling took possession of him. Power, but also the certainty that he was going to see Daenerys again. Adrenaline stopped him from feeling the effect that a creature of fire was going to have on his skin, and from worrying about what could happen to him if the mount were to change its mind, or if he were to lose his seat.

Of course, flying away from the range of enemies throwing spears and arrows was the first and only thing he had to worry about, things being as they were.

“Rhaegal, fly!” he shouted in what he hoped was High Valyrian, his knowledges and skills he had of the language as a noble Westerosi a little rusty after so long.

Rhaegal took off.

Suddenly, Jorah thought that someone had to decide where to fly. He knew that flying back to Daenerys without securing her position in Meereen was quite useless, if not counterproductive.

He could not imagine Daenerys asking Drogon “What do you think we should do?” He knew that his brave and fiery queen would have commanded Drogon, as she apparently had done in the pit, according to some. He also remembered Astapor, and the word “Dracarys”. Suddenly, everything became clear, and he felt different, he felt Rhaegal, and he felt the sense of what he was going to do.

And thus the hero of Pyke became the dragonrider of Meereen as well. This time, he did not need to win a tourney afterwards to crown a Queen, for he already had a Queen, and she already had her crown.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who do you think the “trooper”is here? Jorah? Tyrion?  
> Spoiler: there is no right answer. Enjoy and interpret the story as you prefer.  
> I named the chapter after Iron Maiden’s song The trooper, of course, the galloping rhythm and the battle-related lyrics making it a good soundtrack for re-reading and improving. I also thought of the several meanings of the word “trooper” …and I even discovered another meaning of it, apparently the main meaning according to my dictionary: “mounted police officer”. I knew then I had found my title ;-)  
> Both Jorah and Tyrion are troopers in their own way, author’s opinion   
> And yes, even the fic title is inspired by Iron Maiden (Can I play with madness).


	3. Reign in blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old powers reawaken, new powers arise. Alysane, her past, her present, and the king she bent the knee to.  
> It’s not just Essos where the borders of magic seem to fade away.  
> Featuring: flashbacks, digressions, and above all memories of a sweet bear. Amongst all this blood, there has to be some tenderness, or I will scare everybody away! ;-)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had the honour to have a proofreader and beta-reader for this chapter: all hail favor757, one of the Jorahphiles I stalk on tumblr <3  
> Of course, we are all human, and something can still be wrong. Always grateful for suggestions about typos, errors, improvements!

 

 

_The sky is turning red_

_Return to power draws near_

_Fall into me,_

_The sky’s crimson tears_

_Abolish the rules made of stone_

_Raining blood_ by Slayer, taken from their 1986 album _Reign in Blood_

Another squirrel. Not exactly the biggest treat she could find, but it had to do for now. Her stomach had been aching for hours.

She was clever and smooth enough to get it. She studied its movements for a while, then got into the rhythm, and jumped on it.

A crunch, then gory trickling into her mouth, the flesh surrendering to her teeth.

 

Another movement, somewhere.

Muscles tensing, ears standing up. Sniffing.

_Game._

With some efforts, she remembered _a thought_. She had to let it move towards the camp. They were all starving, eating far too less to be able to fight in the future.

She sniffed again…

 

“Lady Alysane!”

“Lady Mormont!”

“ ** _Aly!_** ”

Finally, the young She-Bear woke up. She found herself where she remembered she had fallen asleep, and that was already good news.

After some stirring, and huge efforts to focus on the new scenery around her, her eyes found Asha Greyjoy’s face, betraying a sadness almost as deep as the one pouring out from the face of the heart tree. A connection, this between the two grim faces, she would have rather avoided. But until the storm stopped, there was no way she was going to escape that view more than a few times a day.

 

Lately, she only had two ways to escape from the remorse, from the cold, from the hunger, from Stannis, from the ravens bringing news.

One was fucking Gunnar, a young and lively spearman in service to her House; tall as many men on the island, and muscular as all of them, probably a few years younger than her.  She had many opportunities to get to know men, to choose them, among Northerners or even Southron knights. But Gunnar had caught her attention because he seemed not to care for the snowstorm, for the hunger, for the tensions among the people at the camp, for the impending battle that could mean death for all of them, for the threat of the Freys. He constantly looked amused by all of it. It was all a great adventure and he had said it was worthier than dying on Bear Island from a Wilding’s spear. The way he moved conveyed arrogance, but this only made him and the idea of having him more enticing. In addition, he had big, strong hands and a light beard, and when she started wondering how they would feel on her body, she knew she had to discover it. And soon they found their pleasure together in every possible way, using their bodies as they thought better, letting him inside her in every possible way was a satisfying escape from the present situation.

The second way to escape her circumstances was a wolf she had found roaming around the camp. There were no bears around Winterfell, or at least not as many as they had back home. A fierce she-wolf became her other distraction conquered by powers she had not really understood so far.

 

“I regret waking you, but Stannis wants to see you.”

 _Wants to see you **again**_ , both Asha and Alysane added in their thoughts. 

 

* * *

 

She had volunteered.

The new storm had stopped all of Stannis’s plans. Ser Massey and her going to the Wall with Arya, any attack to the bastard keeping Winterfell.

All plans except getting rid of mouths to feed. Prisoners’ mouths.

 

Neither she, nor Asha had wanted to see them all burned.

Alysane had then stood up and asked _His Grace_ to honour the Gods of the North along with his Lord of Light, to punish them in the name of Stannis Baratheon but also of Eddard Stark.

Stannis had already heard similar words. _Take him out across the lake to the islet where the weirwood grows, and strike his head off with that sorcerous sword you bear.  That is how Eddard Stark would have done it.  Theon slew Lord Eddard's sons.  Give him to Lord Eddard's gods.  The old gods of the north.  Give him to the tree_. Asha’s words.

But the She-Bear had much more to say.

“Those who betrayed the North will fall to my sword. I will do the beheadings myself, after pronouncing the sentence, as is our custom.”

 

Stannis had looked at her for a long moment, trying to read her thoughts. The warrior woman, heir to Bear Island, had bent the knee. But the North had risen before…and her blood…was her cousin’s nature in her family’s blood? That cousin his brother had pardoned, yet he would not feel comfortable in welcoming him back? Besides, what about his little sister’s words against him?

Was the She-Bear trying to help, or was she sneakily following onto the footsteps of her older sister, who had put her sword at another self-proclaimed king’s service and died with her king, whose name was Stark and not Baratheon? Had she seen the opportunity to raise her House above their current station, now that the Glovers were scattered, and few?

 

He was not Melisandre, who could see things in the flames, though.

He preferred to think that he was witnessing a woman grieving her sister, a warrior ( _how strange it still seemed to him_ ) defending the North’s honour; maybe a young woman understanding another woman’s worries for her brother. He had seen Lady Alysane’s reaction to the news of Jorah Mormont written on her face.

 

And so it was that the Karstarks and the Greyjoy were brought to the weirwood, and kneeled.

“In the name of Stannis of the House Baratheon, First of his Name, King of Westeros, Lord of Dragonstone and of Storm's End, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, by the name of Alysane of House Mormont, heir to Bear Island, I sentence you to die.”

Alysane’s bastard sword swung six times. Blood rained down, spraying the heart tree.

The trees saw.

The power of blood cannot be ignored. Forgotten, maybe, but it is always there.

 

* * *

 

She still felt sorry for Asha. She had felt so from the moment she had cleaned her sword up to every single moment she saw her, but they both knew Theon had no hope. Aly’s hand was firm. A quick death for all of them it had been, in front of the Gods they had all been raised with – even Theon.

If the king had been someone else other than Stannis Baratheon, they might have tried to talk him out of executing Theon.

 

She had feared guilt would overcome her, maybe haunt her dreams.

Her dreams took another turn instead.

She found herself in the woods. At first she had thought she was dreaming of hunting some game for her and the camp, a dream hunger had triggered. Soon she understood. She hadn’t found bears, but she found a wolf.

A twist of fate, her joke about her mating – a metaphor of the Mormonts’ way of life when love was not in the way – had become a reality. Stories told before the fireplace took form and became real.

She was a _warg_.

It was difficult to say where her power came from. She did not know who gave Maege the seed that made her, no better than her sisters knew. The Mormonts who had to _try to comply_ with their duties as lords and ladies sworn to Winterfell had mainly sired the new generations with some offspring of other Northern houses keeping the Old Gods, not necessarily from the main branches, but still blood of the First Men. A few had had to leave to marry people from their island, who were blood of the First Men as well.

 

Now, awakened by Asha herself, sorrow, pity, and maybe a little guilt surfaced, only to be put aside to make space for feelings of nuisance and maybe worry. _His Grace_ wanted to see _the Lady Alysane_. 

What did Stannis want from her this time? She almost regretted the time when he visibly felt uncomfortable in the presence of a woman, and a warrior woman at that.

 

* * *

 

“Come on, my ladies! Make yourself comfortable!” said Jorah, apparently so amused by the irreverent use of courtly manners in this not so refined circumstance that his eyes were twinkling.

“Why do _we_ have to work with you? Shouldn’t _your Lynesse_ be doing this?”

“I thought the two of you liked coming with me and doing things together!” said Jorah with a tender but also mocking smile.

“We like FIGHTING with you!” said Dacey and Alysane in unison. Alysane made sure the message came across by sticking her tongue out.

“Well, if you want to fight you will need to eat. If you want to eat…we will have to store our food.”

“The food you bought from the Southron merchants. For _her._ ”

“It is for all of us.”

“You seldom eat it, cousin.” remarked Dacey sadly.

 

Jorah spent a lot of money since he married his new doll-wife, but he was aware of the coins running out and of the debts summing up. He was used to hard labour anyway, but now he was working even more: in the Hall with the other workers, and he also did whatever he could to save money or increase the value of his performance. At the same time, he tried to let Lynesse and his little cousins enjoy the rich food and drinks he let come from the South, rarely tasting of the goodness himself. Maege openly refused to partake in the “Southron gluttony”, as she called Lynesse’s food preferences, and always added a few remarks about her disagreement with the whole situation. “Dacey is growing up to be a beautiful lady as well, AND a warrior, and she did it without your precious fancy food. Maybe if you started appreciating what the island gives us you might grow some hand for a sword, or for an axe,” she had once said. Lynesse had shown the pain and the outrage at the same time on her beautiful face. Jorah had simply closed the discussion with his gruff but firm tone: “Enough. You already made your thoughts known - many a time, in fact -. Lynesse heard it. Now _we all eat_ , before it goes foul.” He didn’t need to get angry: his tone did not allow any reply.

 

“Well, this way there is more for you, your sisters and Lyn. Now, help me shovel the snow and press it together. We are making snow shelters. It should be fun!”

The two girls snorted, but fastened their mittens and took the shovels, heeding his instructions. However, something was still brewing in their heads.

“Can we let Lynesse sleep in one of these shelters? It might toughen her up!”

“Alysane! Do you want a good spanking?”

Dacey jumped in with a more practical observation: “Do you think we can build enough ice cells to store all the food, cousin Jorah? Shouldn’t we simply order smaller quantities?”

“The price we pay takes the shipping into account as well. Those merchants don’t come all the way to Bear Island just to pay a visit to our Hall. Buying this much is a way to save money. Smoking, salting and keeping things cold is the way to preserve what we buy.”

“You love _her_ more than us!” cried Aly.

“I love you **_all the same_** … you, Aunt Maege, Lyn…but my wife _is_ different, so is the love one bears for a wife, and so are my duties towards her”.

“You never tell us you love us!”

“I just said it!” answered Jorah, touching Alysane’s nose tenderly with one of his big fingers. “Besides, can you imagine your mother’s response to a declaration of love by me while we are all sitting together in the hall? Or to my calling you - or her - sweet names?”

Alysane was not convinced, whereas Dacey smiled a little.

The trio got back to preparing the snow.

This time, it was Jorah who had thought things after: “Will you two promise me that you will refrain from treating Lyn impolitely? She knows you are different from her.  You are not going to help her by behaving as you often do. And you are making her very, very sad.”

“But she has to become like our lady on the gate! That’s what a Lady of Bear Island must look like! Somebody has to guide her!”

“Aly, would you be happy if I were to remind you every day you are not as slender as Dacey?”

Jorah found the right spot: Alysane reacted by erupting into tears. Immediately Jorah felt sorry, and picked her up in his big and strong arms, although not as easily as it used to be. “See? This is exactly what you do to Lyn every time you tell her something unpleasant, she cries, and I need to take her into my arms.” He kissed his cousin on her puffy cheeks. “I love you. Every one of you. Each one of you is different, but you, all together, are my treasure: Lyn with her wits, her curiosity, her company, her passion. You five little girls, with your misbehaviour and your cuddliness. Your mother with her constant criticizing me and her brother, all the while helping me in my duties.”

Alysane tightened her embrace around Jorah’s strong neck, hiding her face. Jorah reciprocated. Dacey added smugly: “You forgot to mention Lynesse’s looks, cousin!” and grinned at him.

“Of course she is _also_ very beautiful. It does not change the truth of what I said!”

Alysane saw an opening for another blow:” Dacey is beautiful too! She can be a lady and a warrior! Why don’t you send Lynesse back and marry Dacey in a few years, when she is _all grown up_?”

“Alysane! What did I just say and show you about making someone cry?”

For all the tenderness Jorah bore in him towards the people he loved, this time his eyes reflected his firmness. His jaw hardened as well. He did not let his little cousin go, but instead used her position in his arms to look into her eyes and convey that he did not want to hear such words ever again.

“Now. Since we all agree I have enough love for all of you, why don’t we see that we also have enough food for all of you?” And with that he put Aly down, patting her on the top her head and caressing Dacey’s cheek. ~~~~

They had fun working with their big cousin, who had been a dear brother and father figure to the girls every single day up to the time he left the island.  They shovelled, pressed, and formed snow, making ice cells out of it, an idea Jorah had gotten from his father’s letters from the Wall.

She could not criticize the love he bore and showed to all of them, and for the efforts he always made to keep things going on the island. She had never understood why he had kept the real extent of their debts a secret, and why he had never confided at least to her and Dacey about his idea of selling two poachers. After all the secrets they had shared over the years! She could only understand why he had kept the truth from her mother:  she  would have probably knocked the idea out of his head with her mace. Dacey and Alysane found the idea of _selling someone_ quite horrible. Actually, Jorah believed it was a terrible thing as well, as this emerged when he spoke of lords selling their children or siblings in marriage, something he felt strongly about when siding with Maege and Alysane on the matter. Jorah…was their beloved cousin: whatever he was going through, they would either have counselled him otherwise, or maybe helped him, if that was the path they had to take.

 

To that day, she still had no idea if that had been just Jorah’s desperate idea, or if that doll-wife of his had counselled him. Neither had she understood how news of two poachers sold by Jorah had reached Ned Stark. Dishonourable as his actions were, she would have preferred not losing her cousin because of Ned Stark’s rushing to execute him.

 

* * *

 

Similarly, neither she nor Stannis had understood why _somebody_ had seen fit to send a raven with Robert’s last acts, including a mention of Jorah’s pardon for his _spying_ – yet another desperate and deplorable move her beloved cousin had resorted to.     

The raven had delivered detailed news of a dragon queen conquering Essos.  Another  raven had come from Greywater Watch for Alysane with a message from her mother letting her know she was  leaving Jorelle behind with Howland Reed ( _and_ _why was the man always hiding in his keep? Didn’t he notice they were at war?_ She could not help thinking), whereas she would be joining Stannis’s army with Lyra and their remaining men and women to help retake Winterfell. Stannis had not been enthusiastic at the idea of having more mouths to feed, their military advantage as far as numbers and experience were concerned already stated by Theon’s information. Still, it was a fierce company of fighters, made by her family and people she trusted.

 

Learning that Jorah had been alive, at least until some moons ago, and knowing that nobody could oppose his return now, had triggered many memories of her sisters and Jorah. In particular, one memory surfaced, that of Jorah teaching her and her sisters to do other things with the snow than snowmen, or snowballs to fight. She had then spoken to Stannis, and suggested they ration the food by keeping it stored in ice cells. Moreover, she suggested they use the snow to help their attack on Winterfell, and to fortify their position against the Freys and the Boltons, by building ice galleries and trenches.

 

Stannis had listened with his usual uneasiness towards women at first then with growing interest. 

At the end she had won the king’s trust _as a commander_.

They were to start working on the attack as soon as the small Mormont group reached them, and the new snowstorm ceased. Stealth, hard labour and ice were a job for Northmen, especially for Mormont warriors. The mountain clans could have been fine as well, but they did not have the bond and the discipline of the Bear Islanders.

Right now, they were just using the snow to fortify the crofter’s village against any possible move  from the South or from Winterfell, meanwhile planning possible actions.

“Lady Alysane”

“Your Grace. You sent for me?”

“Please, take a seat, my lady.”

Stannis was clearly worried about something. His jaw clenched, his brow was furrowed, and he looked more anxious than he had been since the beginning of their acquaintance. ~~~~

“Any news? A scout came back? A raven found us in the storm?”

“Yes. A raven reached us alive in this storm, and this is not even the strangest thing going along with it.”

Stannis stopped, only to tap his fingers on the wooden table with the plans on it. Then he continued:

“But…I suppose there is nothing we can consider strange anymore, after the tidings I received from the Wall.”

“Tidings from the Wall, Your Grace?”

“I had written to the Lady Melisandre, some time ago. I hoped she knew some ways to make wildfire, or something similar to it, to help with our attack. Apparently, she can do… much more than that.”

“It bodes well, I suppose?”

“I have always been sceptical of her Red God. I recognized her powers, but I never asked myself what was their source. Now, I have to admit I am glad we still have some Karstark men. It might be we are going to sacrifice them to R’hllor instead of sending them to slaughter in battle, as we had planned.”

Sacrificing to the red god here, where the Old Gods just gave her powers? No, that could not be. She had to come clean about her warging. But first she had to know…

“What powers are we talking about?”

“Bringing a dead man back to life.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trenches, ice galleries…too much reading and researching about WWI on the Italian-Austrian front! ;-)  
> "Reign in blood" by Slayer turned 30 in these days. I simply had to honour that masterpiece!


	4. Serve somebody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barristan, Tyrion and Jorah have to decide how to serve from now on, in the aftermath of the battle. Meanwhile, we get to review how magic in Daenerys’s life rebirthed, this time with the help of Jorah and Tyrion instead of Dany’s PoV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Slow train coming" marked Dylan’s entrance into the esoteric world. Yes, I wrote esoteric. It is true that this is Bob’s firs album as a born-again Christian…nevertheless, several fans highlighted how this spiritual turn of the Bard of Duluth meant probably something else than the average Christian rock fan would expect. In this album and in the followings there are many signs one could interpret as an interest for syncretic spiritual knowledge and wisdoms for initiates: although a few cryptic, hidden meanings seem to linger even in previous works, themes seem to shift completely from this album on up to "Oh Mercy". For more info, search on the web for Dylan + esoteric or similar keywords ;-) "Gotta serve somebody" is one of the most famous songs on that album.

You may be rich or poor, you may be blind or lame  
You may be living in another country under another name  
But you’re gonna have to serve somebody, yes indeed  
You’re gonna have to serve somebody  
Well, it may be the devil or it may be the Lord  
But you’re gonna have to serve somebody

[…]

You may be somebody’s mistress, may be somebody’s heir  
But you’re gonna have to serve somebody, yes indeed  
You’re gonna have to serve somebody

 

  _Gotta serve somebody,_ from the 1979 album _Slow train coming_ by Bob Dylan

_\--_

“It is not a matter of gold of horses. This is bloodmagic, lady. Only death may pay for life.”

“Death?” [...] “My death?”

“No,” Mirri Maz Duur promised. “Not your death, _Khaleesi_.” […]

Dany trembled with relief. “Do it.”

[…]

“Am I truly your princess?” she asked him.

“You know you are, gods save us both.”

“Then help me now.”

Ser Jorah grimaced. “Would that I knew how.”.

[…]

The curved blade slipped past the straight one and bit deep into the knight’s hip where the mail gaped open.

Mormont grunted, stumbled. Dany felt a sharp pain in her belly, a wetness on her thighs.

[…]

 _Please, no_. The sound of Mirri Maz Duur’s voice grew louder, until it filled the world. _The shapes!_ She screamed. _The dancers!_

Ser Jorah carried her inside the tent.

 

 _A game of thrones_ , Daenerys VIII

 

It seemed like every time somebody wanted to regain some honour, or make amends for mistakes, this person was caught in even more dishonour, faults, turmoil, and who knows what else. At least, such were Ser Barristan’s thoughts while he was tending to his wounds, and not just the ones he received on his body:  it was the sense of despair he was drowning from within his soul, even though he came back from the battle alive, conscious, and with yet another entangled situation in Meereen was as compelling as the cuts, the scratches and the burns.

Since he was still the Queen’s Hand and regent, _de facto_ , he also had to start planning. He did not have the luxury of lying down to speed up his recovery. Therefore, he was already planning the call for the first official meeting of his council and his new allies. He needed to keep court as soon as possible. The brief meeting he had with the captains, some of the council and a few representatives of the allies wasn't enough. There were many things to solve.

Of all the possible outcomes of the battle, he had not expected the scheme of the Second Sons – namely feigning to go over to the Yunkai’i, when in reality the plan was to spy on them.  Still, he had welcomed it. Battles were also won with luck. May the Seven always send luck his way, and to Daenerys’ as well. ~~~~

He surely hadn't seen the Ironborn coming. The Greyjoys were not the simplest of all allies to deal with, but they had brought a navy with them – or at least a part of it. According to Victarion Greyjoy, his ships -  and much, _much more_ than that, to be honest - were here to serve Queen Daenerys. Barristan shivered while recalling Lord Victarion’s exact words. Along with Victarion Greyjoy, there was a strange red priest. He still didn’t know what to do about him, especially considering that there was already enough complexity between the Westerosi Faith of the Seven and the local Ghiscari religion with that strange Green Grace. However, the knight had to admit that the priest seemed to be a fervent supporter of Queen Daenerys, and the R’hllor cult was quite widespread in Essos…maybe it was good to have him along, too.

He had been pessimistic about the possibility of seeing the hostages again, but he had forgotten that Daario and Jhogo were fighters…and so it was that, in the chaos of the battle, those two hostages had first found a weapon, and then fought their  way back into the Queen’s forces. Every single man could make the difference between victory and defeat, and thus he had welcomed the two faithful servants of the Queen back, all other matters that divided them were put aside for now.

While rushing out to battle, Barristan had forgotten about the hostages they held, not to mention about King Hizdahr, and that had been his gravest mistake. He had come back to the pyramid to find a slaughterhouse instead of a court. Skahaz denied any involvement in the death of the hostages, and he believed him. He had not mentioned the king, though, which was curious, to say the least. The king had probably suffered more than the Queen’s cupbearers: he had been stabbed in several parts, including his bowels, and left to die alone in his cell, whereas the poor girls and boys had had their throats slit.

He would have never imagined welcoming a Lannister in Meereen after being dismissed by a court in the hands of the Lannisters.  But apparently, this particular Lannister had quite a few disagreements with the rest of the family.  And now he held the Second Sons in his hands thanks to an agreement made by him. The man truly was Tywin’s son to bargain things with his gold like that.

Above all, Ser Barristan didn’t think he would ever  see Ser Jorah again, and was not pleased to welcome him back. He wasn't sure about the man...he had showed a great devotion towards the Queen prior to his banishment, and the same devotion was confirmed by his choice to risk his life to save Meereen for a Queen he may never see again. Nevertheless, his dealings with slavers and spymasters placed him in a category of people he was prone to despise. But he had somehow managed to become a dragonrider, and this could not be ignored. The issue with his banishment was postponed until the Queen's return, even though he knew he had to mention it.

Barristan had resorted to a clear plan that would keep everything under control. He had commanded Ser Jorah be given a comfortable room and a few guards outside his chamber. His treatment was ambiguously similar to that reserved to a prisoner of honour. His idea was that in this way he could respect the command given by the Queen regarding his exile, all the while keeping the man – and his dragonrider skills - under control. Moreover, he was keeping him safe from Victarion Greyjoy and vice versa – the bad blood between the two families could not be ignored.  He did not have much faith that the two would work together for Daenerys especially when one of the offerings on the table was marriage **to** either King Euron who remained on the Iron Islands or to his very present brother Victarion.

…

One thing finally went as Ser Barristan had wished: Jorah Mormont appeared at the pillared hall, which was being used to keep court, without making him wait for too long.  The tall broad-shouldered figure appeared, his walk a little unsteady.

“Ser Jorah” said Barristan with a slight gesture of his head in the manner of a greeting.

“Ser Barristan” answered Jorah.

“Take a seat. I hope your wounds are nothing to worry about.”

“Not really, just a few minor burns **.** And I will need new breeches, it seems.”

Jorah had ridden Rhaegal  with fervour, but after the battle was finished and Rhaegal had let him dismount, adrenaline had worn off and Jorah had noticed the pain he had ignored while burning the enemy. A mixture between saddle sores and slight burns, he had something to remind him of his new role as a dragonrider. The healers and the handmaids were probably laughing in some remote corner of the pyramid. Ser Jorah tried to keep the embarrassment away from his mind; a difficult task, considering that he could hear Tyrion’s voice booming in his head. The dwarf would tease the big man with, ‘ _A new meaning to the expression ‘The butt of the Gods’ joke’_ if he had been present as the healers applied the medication.

“Well, Ser Jorah, while I am glad you are well, my current role forces me to be very open about...some matters that linger between us. You will not help Her Grace nor will Daario Naharis be of any help to her cause as well.”

“I admit I am not as fine a swordsman as you are, Ser Barristan, but I have been fighting for Daenerys for years, and I survived my fair share of battles…”

“You have been marked for a slaver, an oathbreaker, a traitor among the Westerosi! How could you not understand…”

Jorah reddened as his body tightened with rage.  He felt like was going to explode as he shouted at the older man.“Seven hells, Ser Barristan! I sold two poachers I found on MY lands because I hoped to keep both my wife AND my family happy and all my debts paid. TWO poachers! One deal! I am not a slaver! I am not a Lannister, who apparently can sell whomever wounds their pride, nor am I a Wise Master, who based his wealth on slavery. It is so easy to speak when you have nothing to love, nothing to fight for. Laws and traditions fixed your duty; you only had to follow your path and very few questions to ask yourself. I had to make my own choices, and I chose to fight for my loved ones. I lost, I lost everything! I also became a slave myself. **_This_** is the only mark I am bearing forever”, he said as  he pointed at his branded cheek.  “Unless, of course, Daenerys doesn’t decide to remove my head. If it is the Queen’s will, I will bow my head gladly and offer my neck to your sword.”

Ser Barristan was impressed by the calm and thehonesty with which Ser Jorah said the last sentence, not to mention the joke he made at his own expense.

“I see. This means you will accept Queen Daenerys’s decision, if she comes back, whatever her decision will be?”

“ ** _When_** she comes back.”

“When she comes back…and if she does not, will you accept my decision?”

“Aye, I will.”

“Why? Why should I believe you?  She said you had to leave Meereen and collect your pardon in Westeros. Yet you are back here.”

Rage rose again in Jorah’s heart. This was not Barristan’s business. “Strange words for a man who should be thankful for what I did in the battle.”

“ _Ser Jorah_ , if I remember correctly, at our last meeting, it was a similar attitude that convinced Her Grace to exile you instead of forgiving you.”

Jorah had to admit that he often became terribly clumsy in his wording, especially when passion or rage inflamed him. Of that, he was aware. Unfortunately, he only became aware of this flaw _after_ he had said something and could not take it back.  He inhaled slowly and took this opportunity to make things right between them. ~~~~

 _“Ser Barristan_ , I don’t expect any reward for doing what I decided to do when I pledged myself to Daenerys, for simply doing my duty as a knight. I do expect, however, that you recognize me as somebody who is on your side, no matter what your opinion on my person is. You seem to consider me ~~as~~ an enemy. My flaws are none of your concern; I will be glad to discuss them with my queen, if she asks me about them, but not with you.”

Ser Barristan took a hard look at the man before him.  He could not deny Jorah Mormont was being honest, and true to the oath he had once sworn to the Queen.  He also reminded himself for the hundredth time, Ser Jorah was a Westerosi, a knight and a dragonrider, and he needed such a man in his court. The way to Westeros was still long, and there was enough time to sort things out.

“Very well, Ser Jorah. I shall readmit you conditionally at court, but it will be the Queen’s decision if you remain or if you are going to be exiled again or executed.  You will participate in meetings that I consider are suited to your abilities and you can be trusted.  You will train your dragon and you will assist in the training of new knights.  Otherwise, you will remain in your chambers when you are not needed elsewhere.” ~~~~

_You have to serve her somehow_ thought Jorah, accepting Ser Barristan’s conditions.

\---

Tyrion Lannister would usually choose to mark the end of a battle and of a terrible adventure by drinking and whoring, repeating the two things for as long as it pleased him. This time, however, although he was free to choose,  he decided to ensure that Penny was safe in her new quarters, then to pick up some wine and finally to make his way to the chamber of the newest dragonrider. There would be time for pleasure, he thought but first he had to secure that nobody damaged the new opportunity for the biggest revenge the world had ever seen, namely landing on Westeros with a Queen and a company of sellswords, not to mention three dragons…two of which, it seemed, had a rider already. It was only a matter of time until he found a third one.

Penny was indeed safe, or at least it seemed  so when he finally reached her after the first cups of wine he decided to have before he came to her room. She was worried, though, as usual. Tyrion did not appreciate her renewed anxiety, but he tried to act like a decent human being. “We are in the Queen’s palace. We struck a deal with Brown Ben: we are going to honour our contract our own way, by staying here and having a chance at influencing deals in Meereen. Thanks to Jorah, we also gained guards and honours. What is there to whine about this time?” he asked her, anger surfacing under his cover of self-control and rational arguing.

“We…what do we do in here? Back in a court…with all the conspiracies…in the Second Sons, we could have stayed hidden, away from the front line; we could have tried to keep trouble away, but here…they even slaughtered those cupbearers…”

Tyrion knew he had to storm out of the room before he lost control, and so he left in a hurry, slamming Penny’s door and calling for some more wine to be brought to Ser Jorah’s room.

\--

“Mormont!” said Tyrion with an authoritative tone while opening the door to the knight’s chamber, entering the room and shutting the door immediately after a nod to the Unsullied guards.  ~~~~

The young Lannister barely had the time to notice that _Mormont_ had jumped up from his previous position with a dagger in his hand.

“ _Ser Bear_ , is this your usual way of welcoming people? I have misjudged you, then. I thought meeting slavers with a blade in your hand was a sign of your bravery.”

“I _mp_ , I advise _you_ to pay more attention to _your_ ways than to mine, if you are in the mood for judging. Barging into a room unannounced is not what I would call a clever move, especially considering the _circumstances_ of our access to the Queen’s pyramid,” and with this he lowered his dagger.  His face revealed his irritation and his trembling hand suggested adrenaline was pumping fiercely through his veins.  ~~~~

Jorah was right, of course. Probably drinking before talking to the knight had not been a good idea. Tyrion sat down beside the small table that adorned Jorah’s room, looking at the very annoyed warrior with a mixture of amusement and wariness.

“I don’t know if you want to keep your dagger ready or not…anyway, the door will open again soon: I asked for some wine.” _For some more wine_ , he corrected himself in his thoughts. “We have many difficult matters to discuss, and I want to begin with the most pressing one.”

“Is the wine really necessary?” asked Jorah, smelling the sweet-sour aroma coming from Tyrion’s mouth.

“Are you afraid you cannot stomach it, Ser Bear?”

“I believe you have had enough wine before you arrived and I will have more trouble soon if I let you get completely inebriated in my room. Not to mention the trouble we are all going to have if you drain the Queen’s supply of wine dry in just a few days.”

“You know, it is so funny that of all the men _you_ should lecture me about not getting drunk. I don’t recall you being exactly a septon in that field, or whatever it is you have instead of a septon in the North…”

“There is a great difference between using wine a few times in order to dull pain, and continuing doing so while having, as **_you_** described it, a great opportunity and an  important role to play’.”

To that, Tyrion had incredibly nothing to object. On the contrary, he was glad to hear Jorah was particularly willing to play a role in… whatever was coming. He settled for starting one of the most important conversations he had to hold in the following days, all the while waiting for the wine.

Tyrion took a look at the battered knight. He had lost weight, and although still muscular, broad-shouldered and definitely strong, he simply looked _different_. The swelling in his face was completely gone now, but the demon mask still remained. His eyes were no longer haunted but gleamed with the confidence of a warrior since Jorah had come back to life thanks to the Second Sons.  But now he noticed something he had not seen before, a deep sadness.   He thought perhaps Jorah was wondering where the woman he loved had gone.  The lucky bastard at least did not have to ask himself _where whores go_ , but rather _where do queens go_. _Or dragons_.

Lying in a room without battles or plans to put into actions let thoughts linger in their wounded souls that should not have been lingering. He did not want them to drown in sadness.

The knight impressed Tyrion, after all. Mormont never looked like somebody who he had to kill in order to pursue his scheme of revenge. To be honest, he had thought of _getting rid of him_ at times, although not so drastically as having someone kill him, but he convinced himself that Mormont’s _personal situation_ with the Queen would have taken care of itself. Seven hells, the “situation” with the Queen was exactly why he had once thought how he wanted the man far away from Daenerys’s court, in case they all survived the war. He did not trust a man who had literally on three occasions thrown his life away for the women he loved. He wanted war machines and cunning politicians at his side in order to turn the Sacker of Astapor into the unstoppable weapon he would use for storming King’s Landing and getting his revenge on Cersei, thus securing him Casterly Rock.

Even though it had come to his attention that Jorah was a warrior, and a true survivor, this had slowly changed his mind and he accepted the idea of finding him a place in his glorious revenge plot. This dragon-riding stunt was a complete game-changer, though.

Besides, he was finally starting to put pieces together: first, rumours of Daenerys exiling faithful servants spreading through Essos – and rumours always had some truth behind them. Secondly, he had conversations with several commanders and advisors – including Jorah. All this made him speculate that Mormont could have been a little more than a lovelorn knight following _Florian the Fool_ ’s steps, more precisely a former advisor with his own value instead.  There was only one way to find out. Investigating. 

Tyrion had to take action, and since he was talking to the dragonrider, he began summoning the line for his inquiry.  “Sometimes I suspect you cannot be the idiot that was caught by his liege-lord selling to slavers in order to find the money necessary to please a spoiled girl. You cannot be the hopeless fool who tried to sell me to please Queen Daenerys. You make me wonder if you are, instead, something more sophisticated you cover up with your reputation as honourless exile, given your acquaintance with our common friend Varys. This is one of those times. Suddenly you turn into Aegon the Conqueror? I think you had better come clean. You know we are a good team, after all. And we are on the same side, now more than ever.”

Jorah did not know what to think about his _companion_. Tyrion had proved an ally, indeed, but he still knew that the Imp was only looking for a means to his end: he had always been very honest about that. Jorah still preferred to trust Tyrion only in part. Daenerys told him once she thought that he distrusted everybody because he was jealous, but that was not true. He distrusted everybody because in the North trust was something one had to earn. He felt that Tyrion had deserved at least _some_ of his trust so far, but he could not ignore the fact that Tywin’s son could outsmart a former minor lord like him quite quickly, and that was reason enough to remain cautious around this man.  ~~~~

“Would that I had something great to reveal to you, _Lannister_!”

“You know, you could begin by telling me what exactly happened, _Mormont_.”

“It is not like you do not know already. Rhaegal landed not far from where I  stood.  He did not burn me and let me climb on him and ride him. When I commanded him to burn our enemies’ ships and tents for his mother’s victory he did just that.  Then he brought me back to you.” Not exactly an exhaustive retelling of his accomplishment, but Jorah thought better to keep some details to himself. Who knew where this conversation was leading?

“So, suddenly, a beast that was according to all reports out of control becomes a war horse for a Northern knight with no Valyrian blood and even breathes fire on his command? You are hiding something from me. You could reveal it. You know that Rhaegal is now yours. That is quite an advantage you have on me – you know, along with being the big and strong Northern brute you have always been.”

“I assure you, I was as surprised as you are. I only knew that the dragons have known me since their birth.  I was, after all, the first man they saw when they were born…”

“So, you **_are_** withdrawing some information from me. Tell me more about this hatching. It is evident that you know more about this than every other man here at court. And even more than Illyrio claims to know.”

Jorah felt a sudden pang in his chest. The dragons’ rebirth was, indeed, a story he should have been telling the whole world, something very few had witnessed, but there was so much pain in the complete history of the eggs’ hatching. There was also pain in remembering a time when he was Daenerys’s advisor, first of her Queensguard, friend, and blood of her blood. The time when she had not been scared off by his clumsy but passionate and yet respectful proposal, when she did not feel threatened by him only because he had once declared his love and his intentions.  It was a time when she did not know that he had come into her service in the beginning in order to spy on her and her brother in exchange for a pardon which enabled him to return to his home a free man. 

The pain must have shown on his face because Tyrion continued with the usual amount of more or less affectionate mocking - a mocking directed in fact not only at Jorah  but also towards a part of the dwarf himself.  ~~~~

“You should have learnt by now that people lose, suffer and die, unlike your favourite fairy tales I imagine you still read when you are not killing, ~~or~~ eating, or drinking. I want you to be _very_ detailed about what happened, no matter what these details do to your tender soul. I hope you realize that after centuries we have two people riding a dragon again, you and Daenerys. And there is a third person we might still find out about. Besides, it is not as if you brought Rhaegal to his pit to sleep after the battle, so you still have some things to learn. The same goes for Daenerys, as we do not know for sure what she has done with Drogon, or if she has not come back because _she_ does not want to, or if the _dragon_ does not want to return. And no one seems to know what to do with Viserion.”

Jorah braced himself, drew a long breath and began his tale, hoping to be able to come out of this difficult conversation alive.

“Daenerys was sold as a bride to Khal Drogo. A _khal_ is the equivalent of a king for the Dothraki. There are of course many differences, but these are not so important now…anyway, the day of her wedding, she received the three petrified dragon eggs from Illyrio as a present, along with other valuable items. You know how rich and opulent a man he is… and his present seemed to stress the fact that he could do almost everything. Even giving away such a treasure to a poor frightened child, married off to a warlord who after the wedding would resume plundering and ravaging far away from what we call civilization.

The eggs were incredibly beautiful to behold. Among all the gifts she received, she grew particularly fond of …of the filly she rode, of the books…and of these eggs…”

“The books?” interrupted Tyrion.

“Histories and songs from the Seven Kingdoms,” answered Jorah, betraying emotion that Tyrion could neither reliably interpret nor relate to.

“Daenerys was little more than a scared child then, and her first days in the khalasar were difficult for her. I remember seeing pain and fear constantly on her face. I felt so sorry for her, and I offered her my companionship, which she somehow accepted and appreciated. Being her…friend, I became aware that Daenerys was drawn to the eggs. Yes, they were beautiful and precious, but she seemed to see something else in them. They captivated her. One day, her brother even planned to steal her eggs. You know, to finally buy himself an army and ships and go to Westeros…”

Tyrion rose an eyebrow and interrupted him. “I guess that did not end well.”

“No, it didn’t. I stopped him.”

“Oh. Is that why the only Targaryen we have is Daenerys? And maybe Aegon, but that's a more difficult task, knowing if he truly is Rhaegar's son, I mean...well, is it all your fault then – or merit?"

“No. I would say he did it all by himself, but since you’ve asked for explicit details, it was Daenerys’s husband who did it. Viserys threatened her and their baby, and he got crowned by Drogo, with molten gold from his medallion belt.”

“The Mad King would have been proud of his good-son.”

“It wasn’t a beautiful sight to behold, so I hope you will understand if I don’t join you in mirth.”

Tyrion simply nodded. He had received a few accounts about the way Aerys had murdered Brandon and Rickard Stark, and he wasn’t sure about what bothered him more: whether the gruesome image they evoked in his head, or the hateful feeling that rose in him at the memory of the one man who had told him all the details.

“I seem to recall you saying something of the sort. Now I understand.”

“Anyway…when Khal Drogo died …”

“Mormont, it seems like you are skipping a few chapters. Embarrassed of your performance as the Spider’s puppet?”

These words hurt Jorah deeply, and his feelings clearly showed on his face. Tyrion decided to let it go, at least for now.

“He got wounded during an attack to a Lhazarene village, you see. Daenerys was worried because he seemed to neglect the wound, and she asked a sort of priestess, or sorceress, her khalasar had taken prisoner to help. He disregarded her instructions, though, and the wound festered. Daenerys resorted to asking the sorceress to do some magic, blood magic. The Dothraki outright hate magic, and I wasn’t fond of this option either. But she let her do it anyway.”

Tyrion listened in silence. He liked dragons, and the magic that was related to them. Blood magic was a different thing entirely.

Jorah continued. “The sorceress slaughtered Drogo’s horse for her magic with Daenerys’  consent, and therefore all the khalasar, already shattered by Drogo’s slowly decaying health, turned against her. One of her husband’s bloodriders wanted to kill both her and the sorceress, but I stopped him. I was lucky I was wearing my armour, or I would not be here,”   As Jorah completed his sentence, the pain in his ear and in his hip seemed to come alive again. _Probably all the memories and my emotions getting the best of me,_ he thought _…_

…but then he touched the scars on his body and grimaced in pain.  His vision blurred, and he heard a voice from afar: “ _Iron Lord…Silver Lady…the grave casts long shadows…_ ” Jorah, feeling the pain in his body and in his soul, fell to his knees in front of a very worried Tyrion.  Clutching the scar on his hip and his half-missing ear, he let out a scream of pain.

Jorah could not see Tyrion, instead, he saw the shadows dancing in the tent again. “I did it to save her, to serve her!” he screamed, answering the voice chastising the _Iron Lord_ and the _Silver Lady_ for entering that tent and ignoring the consequences.

“What? What did you do?” somehow Tyrion’s voice reached Jorah.

The knight tried to ignore everything he was seeing, feeling, and hearing from afar.  He  fought to get back to their conversation, gritting his teeth from the pain and the effort: “I…I was wounded, but I killed the bloodrider. Daenerys, unfortunately, went into labour while I was fighting…or immediately after I killed my opponent, I am not…I am not sure.” Jorah regained his vision, but the pain still lingered. He stood and very slowly sat again. “I picked her up. I had to save her. I was frightened she would die there in front of me giving birth to her son. The birthing women already had run away, so the only woman who would help her was the sorceress.” Jorah’s voice broke. “She was…in Drogo’s tent, doing some…ritual, I know. There were shadows dancing with her, and terrible screams…but I had to try to save Daenerys and her child.” And with that he covered his face with both hands, sobbing desperately, allowing the tears to flow, which had been threatening to erupt inside him for years.  Years of pent up emotion, years of trying to do everything he could for the people he loved, and years of failing miserably at it. These failures culminated with him bringing Daenerys to a sorceress who probably killed her child in some dark ritual.

Tyrion was mesmerized by Jorah’s tale.  He had to know the end of the story.  “What happened then?”

“I brought her into that tent. The sorceress…later told me those…those were shadows of the grave, whatever that meant.” Reliving the pain and hearing those words again had not made Jorah the wiser about that dark warning. “The child…the child never lived,” a sob caught in his throat.  “He was…like a corpse full of worms, and not a child’s corpse. He…apparently had wings, scales and a tail like those of…dragons, dragons indeed.”

Tyrion’s eyes widened again, his amazement at all these shocking revelations surpassed  any feeling of sympathy for the knight’s pain.  His curiosity grew and he yearned to know even more in spite of the dreadful things he was hearing.  ~~~~

“Was it this witch then? Did she make the eggs hatch?”

“No. She had…done something to Drogo instead. He wasn’t dying anymore, but he wasn’t living either. He was just…there, breathing, but not reacting to anything. Daenerys…soon became angry that she had sacrificed her son in exchange for a mockery of life for her husband. She decided then to put an end to Drogo’s misery herself, and then to avenge him.”

 _Even more intriguing_ , thought Tyrion, thanking all the time spent on books of every sort.

“We built a pyre for Drogo and his horse, with all of his treasures to accompany him. I was… frightened. it was difficult to read Daenerys’s mind, and I was afraid she was planning on killing herself out of pain for a lost love. But she denied she had any intention of ending her life. By then, I swore for the first time my sword and my heart to her as a Queen. She asked oaths from all of her khas, to make them her bloodriders by giving them the weapons she received as a ceremonial bride gift, but they refused. You see, a Dothraki is not used to a khaleesi instead of a khal, and simply do not accept female lordship. She then asked for my oath, in addition to my previous spontaneous vows, and offered me a  sword of Valyrian steel in the future instead of the Dothraki bride gifts. I vowed to serve her, obey her, die for her if need be, as every knight would. But the ceremony was the same as she held for her bloodriders… so in a way I am her Queensguard – she named me ‘First of her Queensguard’ – and her bloodrider as well.

When everything was ready for the pyre, she put her dragon eggs on the pyre as well. I told her not to do that, to reason with her that the eggs were precious objects and could be sold for enough money that she would never have to worry again about her living…but she would not listen.  She then made me bind the sorceress to the pyre, once again not heeding my counsel against such a decision.”

“You _are_ a brave man, trying to talk a Targaryen out of burning people,” said Tyrion with a grin.

Reeling from the emotional and physical pain Jorah did not appreciate Tyrion’s attempt at humor, and a glare was his answer.

“Nevertheless, not only did Daenerys burn the maegi, the sorceress, on the pyre along with the eggs, Drogo’s body and his treasure, but she stepped into the fire herself. I must have cursed every single god known by name that night. No matter how hard I cursed or angryily I screamed her name…” Jorah paused, lifting his finger in a warning gesture.            “ ** _I forbid you to make any joke of my screaming her name!”_** He then began to divulge the rest of the story.  “I had resigned to crying on her ashes the following day, and as soon as the fire died out and I was able to get nearer to the rests, I went to see for myself. I wanted to…I wanted to have closure, no matter how much it would hurt: at least I would not have to torment myself with questions and doubts for years to come. I wanted to weep over whatever I would find of her.  I would shed every single tear I had within me, and then leave it all in the past. But it was then I found her…” Jorah stopped, his eyes looking in awe at something that was not in the room in Meereen.

“This is the one detail you cannot leave out, Jorah.”

“She was alive…naked, covered in ashes, without hair…but alive…and not just her: she had the cream-and-gold dragon sucking at her left breast, the green-and-bronze at the right, the black-and-scarlet draped across her shoulders. The latter was the first who noticed me, and looked up at me. I fell to my knees, as did all of the Dothraki who remained.  We truly became her khalasar at that moment.  Then, the dragons sang, the clumsy sound of baby dragons trying to make the world aware that they are alive.”

Tyrion was truly amazed.  Lost in thought he swirled his wine for a moment before drinking the strong vintage. 

Jorah Mormont had been the first person to witness the reappearance of dragons.

He had been the first to swear his sword to the Mother of Dragons. The matter with his heart might have been even worse than he thought, for what he could gather from the tale and from Jorah’s reaction.

Daenerys and Jorah had indeed gone through some absurd ritual. In the past, Tyrion Lannister would have laughed at such tales, but the dragons were proof enough that magic existed, and therefore he had to believe something extraordinary had happened, first in that Dothraki tent, then on that pyre ~~.~~

The big challenge for him was trying to learn more about that ritual while cutting himself a role in Daenerys’s court, a former Ghiscari court taken over by a young queen of Westerosi origin with Dothraki, former slaves and sellswords as an army.

Would that strange red priest – Moqorro, or what was his name – be of any use? Or was he Victarion’s puppet? Would he find sorcerers? Libraries? Would he drown in political intrigue?

He still had a few questions to ask Jorah.

“Have you ever touched the eggs, or done something with them?”

“No.”

“And…what about the battle? How did you come to the idea of…riding Rhaegal?”

_Should he tell him?_

“To be honest, it was not exactly an idea. I…I simply felt I could ride him. I felt I had to ride him.”

“You…felt it? It has been accepted by most historians that not only the Targaryens or pure Valyrian bloodlines could produce dragonriders, but still it was implied there was much more than…instinct behind their riding skills!”

“You know much about dragon riding?”

“Yes, Mormont, I would say I know much, much more than you. I suppose…the whole tale you just told me suggests you developed a deep connection to the dragons and to Daenerys. You were also exposed to some obscure magic, although for now I only have your tale, and other testimonies could differ and make for a different interpretation of what happened. I would love to talk to the Queen soon. But…well, that could be accomplished as soon as I make you a saddle and as soon as we have improved your dragon riding skills…”

“You want to do…what?”

“Do not argue with me, Jorah Mormont. You will do as I say. I am the mind, and you are the sword and the muscle. If you think about it, this is the only way we have out of all the difficulties we had. Be fair and admit it.”

“I used to be one of Daenerys’s advisors as well, not just her sword.”

“I am not saying I don’t want you to advise her. I am just saying you…you sometimes need more broad-vision strategic thinking. This is one of those cases. You were already dreaming of flying to Daenerys in the very next few days, just like that, as soon as you felt better, weren’t you?”

“I had come to the conclusion that we first had to secure Daenerys’s position here.”

“But you hadn’t thought about dragon riding, saddles…is it true you got your ass burned, by the way?”

 _Oh, splendid_. “Yes. Exchanged a few words with some handmaiden, have you?” he admitted while clenching his jaw.

“As you see, you only have to gain from listening to me. Besides, my dear knight, you must be curious about the roots of your dragon riding. I must be honest, I thought you had at least muttered some…words to him. Since it looks like we are in a sort of a fairy tale, well…some words of enchantment.”

“Well, I did tell him we had to fight for Daenerys. I wanted us to serve her and fight for her…with him.”

“So you did say something! Although I expected something more…mysterious. Like Valyrian steel. But you renewed your…devotion to his mother, so to speak.”

“Yes, that is probably how I would describe my words.”

“You were also…the first man to see the dragons, and the first man they saw, and the first to bow to them and their mother, is this correct? Is it truly like you told me?”

“Aye. There is no way I would forget that moment, not a single detail of what transpired.”

Refraining from the irresistible need to mock him about _the reason_ he would never forget, namely Daenerys’s nakedness, he continued his analysis. “I suppose this is enough to suggest you somehow bonded with them, and your renewed devotion made the rest. Nevertheless, there must be more. Something that…witch did, for example.”

“You are right.”

Tyrion thought, and drank, and thought, and drank. Red wine.

_Red like blood_

_Fire and blood. The Targaryen motto._

_Fire…and blood_.

 _Blood magic_. His more practical and almost light discussion with the knight about saddles had distracted him from his focus and from much, much more.

“You said… the witch did some blood magic? Are you sure that is what she said she would do?”

“Aye. As sure as I am of my own name. That is another thing I will never forget.”

 _Blood magic_ , Jorah said. He also said something else…not just said, actually, but…he had fallen from his chair, seemingly in a painful trance.

“You also said something about fighting in armour and being wounded. And something…eerie must have happened to you. You were not there with me for a while when telling me that.”

“I fought one of Drogo’s bloodrider, I told you. He wanted to kill the sorceress and Daenerys. The Dothraki hate magic. But please…don’t…make me retell it…” and Jorah felt something again. The pain, the voice. He visibly contracted again.

“Jorah… ** _stay with me!_** What happened to you then? And why did you fall from your chair before? Do not surrender to anything. I am here with you. I am here to understand and learn.”

Jorah tried to focus on the fight with the bloodrider alone but it  was difficult, considering that the maegi had already begun her ritual by then. Besides, the pain and the echo had returned.  “I…he was very quick…he…he cut half my ear off…and then he caught a hole in my mail, and sliced through my hip.” The voice from afar spoke once again saying _the Iron Lord shed blood._ This time the pain from the scar tissue kept him focused and able to recount to Tyrion the events of that day.  “The bloodrider’s arakh cut into my hip bone and it became wedged giving me the opportunity to kill him with a single stroke. 

_Fire and blood_ , thought Tyrion again. _Whose blood, though? So much blood in this tale. It is no easy task to understand it._

Jorah breathed deeply and was able to stop the voice in his head and dull the pain. As soon as his head cleared again he continued. “You know, as stupid as it might sound, dragons are animals.”

“It does not sound stupid. It **_is_** a stupid thing to say. _Of course_ they are animals.”

“No, you don’t understand. In the North there are tales about wargs, people able to control animals by possessing them. Many of us discard those tales as…well, old wives’ tales, but who knows…I was a sceptic myself, before that pyre. Now, I would believe them. You probably are not very familiar with the concept of warging, as it is something usually connected to our roots in the First Men culture and society, but maybe these powers truly exist in humankind and the Valyrians discovered them as well.”

Tyrion recalled yet another memory: that of a young boy on his way to the Wall, with a direwolf always at his side…and of an argument about, well, the validity of _some beliefs_ in the North.

“Mormont, you amaze me. Now that I think of it… Ned Stark’s bastard, that Jon Snow…and the Stark children…they had direwolves following them like shadows. I thought they must have trained them well, but…no, there is more to it. Jorah…have you ever warged…a bear?”

“What are you talking about? What are you suggesting? Direwolves south of the Wall?”

“Yes, I am sure of it. One of Ned Stark’s sons even told me how they found the pups in the woods, their mother dead. Direwolves, not wolves.”

“Well, after all…if we have dragons, the Starks _can_ have direwolves. But…have you seen then warging them? I don’t believe it.”

“No, I don’t think they warged their direwolves yet, but I think there was a bond between the children and their animals that went far beyond that of a human and its trusted animal. And you are ignoring one question I asked you.”

  
“I never warged anything. I assure you I rode Rhaegal and did not warg him. I would not have ridden him, and I would not recall all the things we accomplished during the battle.”

“So, what should warging look like, since you Northerners seem like experts?”

“It is like possessing the animal, entering it, enslaving its mind and controlling its body, all the while knowing you are not the animal and you have your own body to come back to. And it is not an easy task.  It cannot be accomplished by just anyone or on their first attempt.” ~~~~

“What do your tales say about this power?”

“That it can be dangerous, on many levels. That it is very rare, and comes from the First Men bonding with the Children of the Forest. The Wildlings would have more things to tell you. We questioned many of their raiders we caught back on Bear Island. They know about many things…and now I regret not believing in what they told us.” A flash…a memory of a dream he had while in his cage as a slave suddenly emerged. Tyrion was not the only one reminiscing things.

“Are the Wildlings descendants of the First Men too?”

“Aye, they are. Some of them even still speak the Old Tongue fluently. We on Bear Island still have some grasp of it…but some of them really only communicate in that language.”

 _The North, Jon Snow, bears and Mormont_.

Another memory suddenly came to Tyrion’s mind:  “Your father! Your father talked about…seeing things in his dreams and hearing weird reports from beyond the Wall! And I did not believe him!”

“You…met my father? When? Where?”

Tyrion drew his eyebrows together and tried to estimate when it had been.  He said, “You know…it must have been almost exactly two years ago, if memory does not fail me. It was at Castle Black, of course.  He was speaking of _dark things_ moving in the woods beyond the realms, of dark dreams, and of sightings of, well, White Walkers.  He begged me to tell the king to send more men to the Wall, and later we received other requests for more help and support. I am sorry my last words to your father before leaving were not exactly, well, supportive, nor were my actions when I returned to King’s Landing.”

Neither the dwarf nor the knight comprehended the irony of Tyrion’s last statement and his foreshadowing choice of words.   Two different details in the tale caught Jorah’s attention. “Dreams? And White Walkers? Did he really speak about those things?”

Could his father have had the same dreams he had while in his cage as a slave?

What was happening? Dreams, the Others, blood magic, and dragon magic.

Tyrion scrutinized  Jorah’s face, sensing there was something more, as if all these layers of the bizarre and magic were not enough already. “Yes, and he seemed quite convinced of what he was saying. What, you think your father was going mad?”

“If you had asked me two years ago, I would have definitely said yes, he is going insane.  A few months ago, I would have had my doubts. Now, I am ready to believe all of his words.”

 _Ah-ha. Jorah has let something slip._ “Which means you have been hiding something from me, although I asked you to tell me everything, and I even explained to you why I must know everything.”

“I have seen things, felt things, and dreamt things as well. Do _you_ think _I_ am going mad? The same thing should go for you: strange things have been happening, some of them even under your own eyes. You should believe more than you have in the past.” ~~~~

“What have you seen, and how, _Jorah Mormont_?”

 _I do not have to share all the details of my dreams with him.  Some of the elements in my dreams are private and will remain so._ “A few times I dreamt of _dark things_ and of the Others as well. I thought I was just hallucinating after I was so badly beaten in the cage. Now I see things differently. And so do you, after all.”

Tyrion did not sense Jorah’s wariness. “This is **_huge_** , Jorah. You will tell me every single dream you have from now on. Every piece of information could be the one we need.”

“We could try to contact my father and ask him to tell us more about his dreams. I know he might not exactly be happy to hear from me, considering the… _circumstances_ in which I left Bear Island, but if the Others are marching on the realm again, as we both saw in our dreams, fighting them back will be the only thing that matters. I confide in your superior rhetoric skills, Tyrion. Something is happening. We’d better learn what.”

Suddenly, Tyrion felt immensely grateful for Jorah, and felt incredibly lucky to have met him, which was probably one of the most ironic things in the world, considering how their acquaintance had come about and what they experienced together. 

“You know, Jorah…I have read so many books, but I feel like I learned so much today. The trouble is, we need even more books, and more knowledge, as you admit yourself. And we also need more sorcerers, or witches, or whatever we can find here in Essos. We need to work on three fronts: one is your dragon riding skills, two is understanding dragons in general and the powers of people like you, Daenerys, maybe the Starks and your father, all these wargs and Valyrian descendants. The third is some solid political leverage in the Queen’s court and her army. You and I will manage it. Trust me.”

“I do not grant my trust easily. But I have no other choice than to trust you in this.”

“The same goes with me, my dear Jorah. But I promise none of us will regret working together on these tasks. Now, while my brilliant mind will try to find out where exactly your powers come from and how we could enhance them, we will have to sort out how many ‘Harpies’ we really have in Meereen, and open Ser Barristan’s eyes on the situation.”

“Done.”

“Done.”

\--

Serving is a hard calling, and everybody in the Great Pyramid of Meereen that night went to bed very aware of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One again many thanks to my proofreader favor757!  
> We tried to explain many things also to non-readers, therefore a few parts might sound unnecessary to readers. I hope that did not bother you!


	5. ...but rises again, harder and stronger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the raven Stannis and Alysane received (see chap. 3), let us move to the Wall. A few important matters pop up…like resurrection, friendship, revenge, some heirloom issues, magic and politics in Westeros. Still a very political chapter, though.  
> This chapter parallels thematically chap. 4 somehow, although they are set on different continents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had no external proofreader or beta-reader for this one, because I have been postponing this chapter for too long. If there is anything to correct/improve, feel free to use the comment section!
> 
> Remember: book-verse + show!Hardhome AU! In short: after Val comes back with Tormund & Co., Jon organises the expedition to Hardhome, then comes back and Jon 69 in ADWD happens, more or less, with all due adaptions to this particular storyline. I liked “Hardhome” in the show, and I think we need to focus on the War for the Dawn more; therefore, I chose to go this way with my fiction.

“Lord Commander…”

“Don’t call me that!”

“Lord Snow…”An annoyed stare was the unspoken answer to this one.

“Jon.” This time Edd had found the _right_ way to address him, so he continued. “There is the delegation from Stannis here at the gates. They are flying King Stannis’s banners as well as the Stark and the Mormont ones.”

_Mormonts,_ thought Jon. He had no idea who of the family had come, and likewise he had no idea if that specific meeting would be something to dread or something to rejoice for. It made sense for one of the Mormont women to escort Arya. He was to discover who, exactly, had survived the war so far, and how did little Lyanna end up on the island alone acting as a regent. “How many people?”

“Just six.”

“Well, all the better, I suppose. My new room is not exactly ideal for entertaining a great number of envoys.”

“You could always use your old room. I mean, I wouldn’t mind. Exchanging rooms, of course. I don’t mean to stay in there: although one of the ladies seems like a very interesting companion, somehow I fear it is not going to be a particularly merry conversation…”

“NO. I should not even start to explain all the reasons why it would be wrong. The Night’s Watch has suffered enough.”

The Night’s Watch, to be honest, was a walking corpse, at least if compared to what it used to be. But one might say that he himself, Jon Snow, was a walking corpse, if seen from a certain perspective.

He had been brought back. Could he bring back the Night’s Watch? Does that what comes back stay the same as it was?

Jon stopped his thoughts: it was no use to drown in them again. He prepared to receive his guests instead. He put some more wood into the fire, as he was often doing during those days. He also thought of Arya…it was difficult to pull out memories at first, but after a while, and after Melisandre had reminded him to “stay away from the cold, and seek the warmth”, his beloved little sister and her sword had come to his mind.

Edd watched Jon losing himself in his thoughts for a while. He waited a few instants, swallowing down an impressive number of remarks he felt he should not have said aloud, mostly concerning Jon’s comeback from the dead that, in Lord Commander Tollett’s opinion, had not worked completely, judging by his mood. When he was sure Jon would not react anymore or add anything, and as soon as he was sure _he_ would not be able to stay silent anymore, he moved and commented: “I’ll go get’em. But I’ll make my duty as a Lord Commander of this place to inform them of the dangers of this meeting. Even the Lord Commander of the Others would make a better company…more cheerful for sure…”

\--

A knock on the door signalled it was time to see his little sister and one of the Mormonts again.

Ser Justin and Tycho Nestoris lead the small group. Since news of _what had happened_ had reached Stannis’s camp before they left, their whole behaviour showed a certain reverence, maybe even a little dread, and surely some wide-eyed curiosity.

“Lord Snow”

 “Lord Tycho, Ser Justin. A pleasure to meet you again. I apologise for the…precarious and inadequate… _situation_ in which I am receiving you. Things have been…well, _evolving_ , and are still evolving. I hope you will understand.” It was no simple task to tell them what had happened. It was no simple thing for them to hear about it too, so both parts decided to postpone any discussion of Jon’s return to an indefinite future.

After them, two very different shapes appeared. One was of a hooded lady, with half her nose off and big brown eyes full of fear. _Brown eyes_. _Brown._ _Not grey_. The other one was a tall blue-eyed lady enveloped in furs and carrying, as far as one could see, a sword. The latter looked at him and examined him intently while removing her fur, her broadened eyes showing the warrior woman was as surprised by him as the others. A surcoat of green wool appeared, the black bear of House Mormont on it, a bastard sword and a dagger hanging from her sides. When the fur was finally on her arm, the Mormont lady broke the silence:

“ ** _Jon!_** It has been a long time!”

“Jorelle” and for the first time in days he smiled, although it was more like a shadow of a smile.

Lady Maege’s fourth daughter stepped forward and asked while looking at him with suspicion “Is it really you, then? In there? No strange demon? An Other who possessed you?”

Everybody would have expected Jon to run towards whom everybody believed was his sister. Instead, he moved towards Jorelle Mormont, and the two of them exchanged a warm, tight hug. The two young warriors, former playmates, felt an incredible warmth while in their embrace that had nothing to do with their bodies’ warmth. It was the feeling of enjoyment for a moment of peace and friendship after years of war, hardships, and losses.

Even Ghost got on its paws and went towards the ladies, sniffing them but keeping a very amiable attitude.

“It is good to see somebody from my old life” and Jon himself did not know if he meant before joining the Night’s Watch or before dying and being brought back. “You can scratch him behind his ears, if you want. He feels you are friends of mine, it seems,” he said talking about his direwolf, who was nuzzling at Jon’s hands.

Jorelle let Ghost sniff and lick her hand. Then she cautiously scratched him behind his big ears. “A direwolf for you as well, like for Robb, I see.”

“Yes, we found them all together. Their mother had died, and there was a pup for each one of the Stark siblings…and even one for the bastard one.”

“It sounds like you have many a tale to tell. It must have been…three or four years we haven’t seen each other.” Jorelle continued her cautious scratching, and Ghost showed its appreciation by leaning into her hand and even into her legs with its big body. Jon felt reassured now that his direwolf showed trust and friendliness towards the young lady, and in the presence of strangers. His trust towards humans had decreased a lot, for _obvious_ reasons.

The brown-eyed girl remained wary of the animal and kept her distance. He knew then he had to talk with the ladies alone, and soon. _Brown eyes_. _Even Jorelle should know it._ But there must have been something important going on, or Jorelle would not have agreed to escorting somebody usurping Arya’s name and position.

He excused himself and, after a few formalities and showing his concern for the men’s appropriate accommodation, asked to be left alone with Jorelle and “Arya”, a request that the men understood completely and honoured without any sign of being offended or of suspicion.

As soon as the door was closed again and the footsteps sounded far enough, Jon mustered his courage to start questioning the ladies. He did not have the time to form a sound though, because the brown-eyed lady was first: “Jon, I am so sorry I had to use her name. But…he…I…I had to flee that place, and then I had to stay safe. You will forgive me, will you?”

“Who are you?”

“It’s me, Jeyne. Jeyne Poole. Sansa’s friend. Don’t you remember me?”

Jorelle jumped in - metaphorically and physically, putting herself in front of Jeyne - before he could react, and laid out her hands in an apologetic gesture: “Please, Jon, don’t get mad at her. You have no idea what she had to endure. She told me. Everything. It was very hard to listen. All because she was daughter to a Starks’ man”.

Jon could read the fear on Jeyne’s face. He could also see the lacking nose. “Frostbite?”

Jeyne nodded. He hated himself for not being able to say or do anything meaningful. He probably should have said or done _something_ , but it was all so difficult for him since he was brought back. “ _Seek the warmth,_ ” Lady Melisandre’s words resounded in his head. If she were Arya instead of Jeyne, he would not need to _seek the warmth_. It had not been difficult with Jory, after all.

“What will we do, Jon? I suppose the truth will have to come out someday. I guess the Northerners suspect, at least those who remember little Arya.”

“Yes, one day. Right now, I deem it better to continue the masquerade. You know what kind of folk is manning Castle Black, aside from the Queen’s men. As for the Wildlings, they respect me, they fear me, maybe they even worship me, but they seldom kneel to somebody, and I sent their king to rescue exactly her. The Queen…she is another difficult matter, but she must know soon, and so must Stannis. Let us keep the lie going on for a little while among the others, until we figure out what to do.”

“Jon, there is _another matter_ , which tells me you will have to figure out things very soon. Well, to be honest, a few things have already been figured out for you. And if I understand correctly, your…your… _situation_ has simplified this specific… _matter_ further.”

“What do you mean?”

“How much do you know about…everything that happened at war?”

“I remember…I remember enough to know that this must be dire news you are bringing me.”

“Not really…quite the contrary, to be honest, at least if we can forget for a moment the reason why there is news for you in the first place. Well…I will cut to the core of the matter. Robb knew we were at war…and what it means…I don’t know if he suspected, though…and he proved to be longsighted in this anyway. He…” - and Jorelle inspired and expired deeply – “…he legitimized you and made you his heir, in case he died without siring one on his wife. And he did not sire one.”

That was definitely another meaning of _a new life_. Jon’s neck snapped for the surprise.

“Robb’s heir…”

“Heir to the King in the North. Jon Stark, I kneel to you” and with that Jorelle kneeled for real. Then looked up at him and said, “I might even ask to follow onto my sister’s steps and be in your Kingsguard”, finally standing again after finishing her sentence.

“Which sister? And…what happened to her?”

“Dacey. She was with Robb till the end” and the sudden sadness that passed on her previously merry face said all Jon needed to know, in case he had not caught the meaning of her words.

Jon remembered his courtesies: “Please, ladies, sit down. I only have this small table, but there are enough chairs for everybody. There is also some mulled wine. Very hot, be careful.” He suddenly remembered pouring wine for Jorelle’s uncle, in a room that was no more, in his previous life: a mental image that surfaced for a few instants, just to disappear again, but the memory of the gesture itself lingered in his mind. “You Mormonts have already had many casualties, almost as the Starks. How…how did this…Robb’s will…”

Jorelle knew she had to help him. He was probably drowning in a stormy sea of emotions: the legitimisation, which made him finally a Stark and even a Lord, was also a reminder of grief. This had come to happen because Robb was dead. They would never play all together with wooden swords, or with stolen swords and maces anymore, at harvest fairs, or in Winterfell - she, Lyra, Jon and Robb, almost all of an age. “Before his uncle Edmure married the Frey girl, Robb gathered my mom, Galbart Glover, Jason Mallister, Edmure Tully himself and Lady Catelyn, and made them witness his choice of successor. Then he sent my mom and Galbart to Lord Howland Reed for another mission. We met mom there a while after, as soon as we were able to wipe the Ironborn away from Deepwood Motte – we left behind Lyanna as regent on the Island - . Alysane went with Stannis, and she is still leading the Northerners at his side. Mom and I reached her recently, and brought the message to Alysane and Stannis, and the other Northmen.”

“But…if someone thinks we have Arya…one might say she is the heir. She is trueborn; she would not need to be legitimised.”

“She was married to the bastard of Bolton, no one would let her inherit Winterfell, believe me. The North remembers. In addition, as I said, many suspect already. I guess nobody spoke the truth because all felt pity for the poor thing.”

“So…there is no way to pull back or ignore this, I suppose”

“I don’t think so. No, definitely not, Jon” and he could not understand if Jorelle, with that hint of a smile she let appear on her lips, was mocking him, rejoicing for him or trying to hide the regret she empathically felt for the harsh way she had introduced the _matter_ and for the demanding and binding message she had brought. The fire from the fireplace reflected in Jorelle’s eyes, the blue eyes that ran in the Mormonts blood and blessed some of them, and lighted her brownish hair, which now shone like red.

Another picture surfaced in Jon’s mind, although just for a few seconds. It was enough to make him smile, and feel more aware of himself, and almost in touch with his old self, finally, after days of unease and emptiness.

“This means I finally have somewhere to go. And I can finally join Stannis, as a Stark, and help claim back Winterfell. But…what about the ‘King’ bit?”

“Well, according to our young Lyanna, you should probably either send Stannis fuck himself, or do him in, the first occasion you find!” japed Jorelle. Jon smiled back. Lyanna’s bold letter to Stannis had caused some major embarrassment, but the girl’s young age made it possible to downplay it as something like a joke, although Stannis was, in fact, not the man for jokes… “However, well, Alysane helped keep the tension under control, and decided to interpret Robb’s will as your legitimization primarily, and the ‘King in the North’ as a way of saying ‘Warden of the North’. I never knew my sister to be so capable a diplomat and a politician. Dacey was in part like that: quite gifted with words and diplomacy, and Jorah was the best one at it, but Aly…something must have happened to her! Oh, concerning Jorah…we had news that apparently King Robert pardoned him before dying. Someone - we don’t know who it was, really - has sent the pardon to Stannis, who cannot refuse to accept it, considering he sees himself as Robert’s true heir. According to the same mysterious source, it seems like my cousin was still alive somewhere in Essos until recently. At least, a year ago he was.”

Jon was overwhelmed by all this information: “Remind me to give you a seat in some council, not just in my retinue. I am already confused!”

Jorah’s name reminded Jon of something important. He stood up and took Longclaw.

“Jory, since you mentioned Jorah, there is something you must know. Your nuncle…well, one day he was attacked by wights, corpses we brought from beyond the Wall and reanimated here at Castle Black…”

Jorelle’s eyes widened, but then preferred to lighten up the conversation once again: “Apparently it seems to be a worrying trend here. I mean, corpses coming back to life.”

“Well, it was not exactly _like me_. These were…animated wights, their hands black…I cannot say ‘decomposed’, because actually that is the one thing they were not. Also, they had unearthly blue eyes…”

“Something against blue eyes, _Snow_?” and Jorelle stuck her tongue out at her former playmate.

“You…you know, I think I should introduce you formally to Edd! You would get along well, although probably I could not stand to be in your joint presence anymore. Anyway…well, the wights were bent on killing us all, especially the Lord Commander. Your nuncle, I mean. I was his steward at the time. Well, I saved him. I threw an oil lamp at a wight and it seems like it is the thing to do, setting them on fire. Something I learnt later at Hardhome…anyway, keeping this tale to your uncle’s part, well…he was so grateful for my intervention, and he held me in great esteem…well, he…he decided to give me Jorah’s sword, Longclaw.”

Jorelle furrowed her brow, and her eyebrows almost knitted together. “I am afraid I am not following you. What sword?”

“Your ancestral sword, a Valyrian steel blade. Jorah left it behind before fleeing Bear Island after his…shame.”

It was time for Jorelle to widen her eyes once again. “Are you sure you understood what my nuncle told you? It might be that Jorah left something behind - I mean something else than an empty coffer and a difficult situation with Lord Eddard - but you can be sure no Mormont ever had a Valyrian steel sword!”

Jon lifted the sword he was holding: “Well, this **_is_** Valyrian steel. Have a look at it, and then I will tell you what else it is.”

Jorelle drew the sword from its scabbard. There was no denying it was Valyrian steel. “Aye, it is Valyrian steel. As I said, we never possessed such a valuable sword. If we had…well, either Jorah would have sold _that_ instead of two poachers, or you could be sure one of us would still hold it. Some days, in the beginning, I swear Mom…after they fled…oh, she would have wanted to find Jorah and Lynesse and beat them with the hilt of a sword like this, if not with her mace. Or maybe she would have even wanted to behead them both themselves, and be done with it. So… you can be sure we would not have gotten rid of it! This one would have been a very good one to punish them! ” and with that Jorelle took the sword in her hand, looked at it, swung it twice, and gave it back to Jon. Then she continued: “Honestly, I think she did not know if she wanted to be sad for losing Jorah, ashamed for what he brought upon our House, angry at the couple, or all those things together.” Jorelle concluded thus her long and partially rumbling explanation.

_Poor girls. They all loved their cousin so much. I was fond of the man myself. He never cared for my name_. _He was kind and warm to me and Robb in the same way_. _And yet he did what he did…_ Jon could understand Jorelle’s feelings – and Lady Maege’s as well. Not to mention the fact that he remembered all too well _Lord Eddard’s_ “feelings” toward the case. However, these were troubles from an era that was over, and he had more pressing things to discuss now. “So, this sword…what is it?”

“I would say… something in ancestral possession of the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, maybe? Sometimes the simplest explanation really is the best one.”

Jon and Jorelle exchanged a few questioning looks. For Jorelle, _the simplest explanation was always the best_. For Jon, though, it was _different_ : “Why would the Old Bear make up such a complicated story about a sword? Couldn’t he just have said ‘It is a great sword, you saved my life, take it?’ Why mention Jorah, your mother sending the sword back to him…”

“Well, let me think about it.” After a few instants. Jorelle came up with a response:  “I think it was an affectionate gesture. You know how we Mormonts never cared for your… let’s call it ‘wrong name’…at least neither did it matter to us sisters, nor to Mom and Jorah anyway. I mean, he probably just wanted to make you feel…loved? Don’t look at me like that, Jon. We Mormonts might be a little rude for your taste, but we do know how to love. He knew how hard it was for you, being Ned Stark’s son in blood but being outcast because you were born on the wrong side of the blanket. Of course, Nuncle Jeor might have had his own reasons for making up this story too: he missed his son, a son he would never see again, and found a substitute in you, so maybe all this complicated story it was for his sake as well. He wanted you two to share a strong mutual connection. Such a story would move anybody, don’t you think?”

“What do you mean by ‘at least not us’?”

“Nuncle Jeor was, indeed, the more…traditionalist one: he did not care much for bastards, but he called them ‘bastards’ anyway. Jorah…aye, he might have looked a traditionalist from the outside, I suppose, because everybody knows he was first married out young by Nuncle and then fell in love with that tart and married her as well, but he was more like us than like his father in his views on…several things. He never once called you ‘bastard’. To him, you and Robb were the sweet, handsome and fine elder sons of Lord Eddard. But…maybe we can talk later?” and with this, she hinted at Jeyne, leaning on the table.

The poor girl was trying not to fall asleep, and had her elbows on the table, her face on her hands. Jon could also imagine they were very hungry, as was he and probably were all the other guests arrived with the ladies. He was glad for the interruption provided by Jorelle.

“I suppose finding you suitable chambers and seeing that supper is ready soon are more important than the Old Bear’s stories, indeed.”

 

* * *

 

 

Freed of his vows, Jon hat thought long about all the possible choices he was finally free to pursue in his life. Winterfell was one of his main concerns, as it was briefly before he was stabbed. And he knew now he had many people who would back him in his choice. He would be a liar if he denied he considered taking Ser Patrek’s place: he could have first stolen Val, as the Wildlings usually do, and then married her in Westerosi custom, although the young woman seemed less enticing to him after their exchange of opinions about Shireen. But she was beautiful, and fierce, and Stannis had offered her to him when he first tried to win him over by making him the Lord of Winterfell…

Now he was the Lord of Winterfell, but he had been made so by Robb and by their fellow Northerners. He was going to kneel to Stannis anyway: they had to fight the enemy coming from the north…resuming Stannis’ own plans, now that there was no oath to break anymore, would reassure the king of Jon’s allegiance. And, as Stannis had said, marrying a Wildling might make the alliance for the Dawn even stronger.

However, Val had repeatedly spoken against kneeling. Obeying to orders in the War for the Dawn was enough to ask to the rest of the Free Folk, and they had already agreed to do that, but for the lady wife of a Lord, _kneeling_ was necessary.

For now, he had to tread everything carefully, or he would lose all the ties and bonds he had struggled so much to gain. Winter was coming, for real, and he needed the Wildlings and the Night’s Watch ready for fighting whatever may come from beyond the Wall. Winterfell had been stolen by the treacherous Boltons, and he needed Stannis’s forces, as these were the only available for an attack to the stronghold. And after Winterfell, there was the Dreadfort still: the Boltons were not to be trusted anymore. Even if he, the new Warden of the North, decided to show some mercy (and he was not exactly willing to show mercy on the account), he was sure Stannis was not going to be merciful.

The Queen’s men proved essential in providing a safer environment for Jeyne: there was usually no need to worry for a Mormont woman’ safety, but the other girl was a different kind of person, and, besides, was visibly broken by whatever she had endured in the hands of the Boltons. Sparing her any other traumatic experience was essential.

The room he found for Jeyne and Jorelle was thus among the Queen’s men quarter, as was his room after all. He wanted to be sure that no one got strange ideas. The more hindrances someone looking for a plaything found, the better. After being stabbed by his own men, trust was something he simply could not feel anymore.

His plan, though, lost in part his effectiveness when he heard a knock on the door and found Jorelle in her green woollen dress, but still with her sword and dagger hanging on her hips of course, smiling at him.

“You might want to remember that we have a discussion to continue…and, also, that you have something to explain to me.” Said mischievously Jorelle. Ghost, who had been dozing by the fire, stood on his paws and went towards her, sniffed her, and then got back to sleep after the young woman had scratched behind its ears as she had done before.

“ ** _You_ ** might want to remember that I made you share the room with Jeyne for her safety, and that…I am now your liege-lord. So, you might want to remember your duties, and also your manners: you don’t order your lord around. Not even me.” His tone was not stern: on the contrary, he made it clear he intended to continue his friendly attitude, but he made sure the young lady understood he was, indeed, worried for Jeyne, and not going to step back on his previous decision on the matter.

“Oh, _Jon!_ Don’t be ridiculous! Even Nuncle Jeor was happy to chat with family members coming to visit the Wall…don’t tell me you are not looking forward to talking to me!”

“Are you _family_?” asked Jon, amused.

Never, never challenge a Mormont sister, Jon learnt when she answered: “Well, I **_might_** become family. It is really up to you, _Your Grace_!” and blinked.

“Stannis is still alive, I haven’t been crowned or even taken my place as Lord of Winterfell yet, and already the Houses are scheming around me!” Jon tried to match Jory’s playfulness, but limited his facial expression to one of his shy smiles. He decided some chatting would do, especially considering the complicated situation they all were in and the proximity of the ladies’ room to his. Therefore, he let Jorelle inside, put some more logs in the fire, and prepared to serve some mulled wine.

“So, I think the first thing we should discuss is how…what…well, how you were killed and how you came back. Gods, I cannot even say it without trembling!”

“It was the Red Woman, the red priestess you saw at supper among the Queen’s retinue.”

“So…these red priests and priestesses…do they have real power? Stannis was, according to Aly, very sceptical in the beginning. Then…we received a raven from this woman, about your, well, resurrection…and, well, many people are starting to acknowledge this Melisandre has powers. No idea if it is this Red God, Rollor, or Rahloo… whatever, they talk about or if they are the Old Gods acting through them, as Aly suspects…”

“R’hllor, the Lord of Light.” corrected Jon.

“Oh…so…you were there…you saw him?” asked Jorelle, hanging between perplexity and terror.

“No, I didn’t. But it was the Lady Melisandre who brought me back. That much is true.”

“So…Aly might be right? She seemed very…sure of what she said, somehow. Even Stannis agrees it is more like Melisandre has powers than this Lord of Light acting, and seems to trust Aly a lot. She is advising him. Incredible, if you ask me. Still, she did not like the idea of sacrificing men to the flames. But they had to try.”

“I thought Stannis simply agreed to execute condemned men on a pyre, not to sacrificing. It should have been an agreement in order to please all those who converted to the Lord of Light.”

“It is like that, but…however…he let Aly behead the Karstarks and, well, Theon. Not an easy decision, in the light of new developments, but…no one could ever forget what he did. After the raven we received, he let a few Karstark men be…well, it is up to you to decide if they were executed for following their treacherous lord’s command or sacrificed. Apparently, thanks to this sacrifice, the storm calmed down, and we were able to leave for the Wall.”

Jorelle was incredibly shocked. He knew. Seeing men burn…was horrible. Not to mention the feelings that the thought of Theon Greyjoy awakened in him. Ignoring the latter topic, he showed empathy about the other issue: “I am sorry you had to witness that, Jory.”

That earned Jon a smile. “Thank you, Jon. Now, what did _you_ witness?”

Jon poured two big cups of mulled wine for her and for him, and prepared himself for the difficult tale he had to tell, that of the end of his previous life and the beginning of another.

 

* * *

 

 

A young Queen’s man-in-arms was running through the Queen’s quarters, alerting all the men in the King’s towers not only with his words but also with the noise of his lance hitting the ground. A few bumps and scratches on his plate, a violet eye and some real terror flowing through his veins backed up his words: “Your Grace! Your Grace! Lady Melisandre! Please, alert everybody and find Lady Melisandre as well!”

“What happened to make you behave like that? Have you turned into a Wildling?” said a knight, who had opened the door to see what the fuss was about.

“A mutiny! Lord Commander Snow has been stabbed! They killed him! We have to intervene! We might be the next! They are all fighting each other!”

In a very short lapse of time, all the sworn swords and the men-at-arms were alerted. And so was Queen Selyse, who was horrified by the news. “I am sure you misunderstood. It must have been one of those savage people who acknowledge no king.” In fact, the _savage people_ had paradoxically kept some sort of order after the horrible attack to the Lord Commander, if one ignored the panic reaction of Wun Wun that lead to Ser Patrek dying and some smaller incident among those who were there.

Finally, Lady Melisandre appeared, seemingly from nothing. “Bring him to me,” she simply said, calm as if nothing had happened. Her attitude was somehow unsettling, in face of what was happening: a young lord commander stabbed to death lying on the snow, a civil war in the Sworn brotherhood of the Night’s Watch, some Wildlings fighting against the mutineers.

The Queen’s men appeared on the scene, with their swords drawn and their lances on the ready. Their coming had soon turned into a proper fight what had been mainly some brawls and skirmishes interjected by parleys so far. The side trying to avenge Jon was victorious soon.

The mutineers admitted to the mutiny, and did not worry much about the Baratheons’ men, counting on the Watch neutrality and therefore on the fact that the Queen’s men would have considered that an internal question of betrayal of vows, mission and discipline.

It was a bitter mistake.

Selyse and Melisandre were very clear in their opinions on the matter, although for different reasons. The mutineers ended up in the ice cells, along with several other men siding too openly with them and a few particularly undisciplined Wildlings. These arrests were made on Queen’s orders, of course. It was in part a very good choice that avoided further blood, considering the Wildlings’ reaction to the deed. But above all it was something that marked the definitive end of the neutrality of the Night’s Watch, more than all the decisions Jon had taken before. Ironically, preserving the Night’s Watch neutrality had been one of the reasons for the mutiny.

Irony, though, was not just on the mutineers’ side, but also on the Queen’s side: sadly for her, the ratio ‘arrested Brothers of the Watch’ to ‘arrested Wildlings’ was not in the proportions she would have wished.

Melisandre never showed worry nor other feelings. She emanated an eerie calm that nobody could relate to the horrible incident, and was paradoxically unsettling for everybody, except for Queen Selyse, who had faith in her as usual. Her eyes were glowing, as her ruby was, a dangerous yet fascinating glow. Her body seemed to emanate warmth like a fire. Her words were few, even though anybody would have been grateful for some more explanation. She seemed not to look at the men who brought her Jon – some brothers, some Queen’s men and a few Wildlings lead by none other than Tormund Giantsbane.

She performed a long, complicated ritual, speaking in Valyrian, in front of men full of disbelief. She passed a torch on Jon’s wounds; she burned some of his hair and of his blood. She washed him, and then proceeded to dry him up. The uneasiness of the people watching her then grew further when she started straight up massaging him, while closing her eyes and continuing reciting something in High Valyrian: the gestures seemed to hint at somebody warming a body up; however, her touch was almost sensual, although the real reason for her passion was her strong faith in her R’hllor.

At the end, she put her lips on his, as she would do if she were to breathe in him.

And then Jon Snow, who had been a corpse for a few hours, breathed in again, and arose.

Soon, all the men at Castle Black were kneeling before Jon Snow and Lady Melisandre.

 

* * *

 

 

“What happened then?” asked Jorelle.

“I admit it was…scary, for all of us. It was a shock for me. I remembered being stabbed. I saw my chest and throat with the signs of the attack when I rose again. The men remembered picking me up unmistakably dead. Then Lady Melisandre asked me…if I had seen him, the Lord of Light, if he had sent me back with a message. But the truth is…there is nothing beyond life. I saw nothing. Melisandre did not know what to think of it. She knows she has powers…but this revelation left her…confused, baffled. The same goes for Queen Selyse and for all the followers of the Lord of Light.”

“Well, I mean…who wouldn’t be baffled?”

“The Wildlings and the Brothers who were at Hardhome fighting see it differently. They were surprised, of course, but some of them felt relieved, and, well…I came back from the dead. Before that, I had killed a Walker…”

“I am sorry…what?”

“Shortly before my…death, I lead an expedition of a few Brothers and Wildlings to the village of Hardhome. The village lies on the eastern coast, and was where many Wildlings were retreating in order to flee from the Others…”

“Are you trying to tell me the Others, the White Walkers, exist exactly the way they were described in our fireplace tales? And that you saw them?”

“Aye, Jory, they do, and I wish they were old wives’ tales. They have been hunting down the folks beyond the Wall for a while, with the help of those wights I mentioned, the wights that attacked the Lord Commander…I mean, your nuncle. I thought you knew how he died, by the way!”

“Was he killed by one of them? We only heard rumours, words of a mutiny. Which seems to be another worrying trend here, if I must be honest…” Jorelle’s sarcasm could not hide her deep worries about the developing scenario Jon was depicting.

“Yes, it was a mutiny, but it occurred after a great ranging the Lord Commander led turned into a battle with the wights and a few Others. A slaughter, it was. Your nuncle was killed when the survivors stopped by…a place we used as a base and a mutiny occurred. But…I thought you knew.” Jon tried to simplify and summarize the long story to Jorelle, leaving out a few details about him and about Jeor Mormont that would have been not just very long, but also very difficult to explain.

Not even one of the tough Mormonts could continue ignoring the fact: “This is a nightmare, Jon!”

“It is. It is what we saw there, at Hardhome. The Others attacked the village while we were evacuating it. A thousand wights attacked first, and then they came, the Walkers. We knew from the previous battle that dragonglass kills them, but we lost the dragonglass we had, and the only thing we could do was trying to help flee as many people as we could, because all killed people become a new soldier for the Walkers’ army. I got into a duel with an Other, and...where normal weapons fail and shatter, my Valyrian steel sword resisted, and was even able to…kill one of them. Unfortunately, all the dead we left behind were raised as wights as soon as we had sailed away from the village.” “Jon! You must inform the realm!”

“Your nuncle had tried to alert the realm, I tried to. Nobody listened. But now the Brothers, the Wildlings, and the Queen’s men know. Melisandre knows, and so does Stannis. You know. Soon all the Northerners will know for sure. They should already know something, to be honest.”

“True. But you were saying…some see you differently. How does all this you told me relate to the way people see you? I suspect something…”

“Yes. I killed a Walker. I came back from the dead. Many people now look at me as…the saviour. Think that all the Free Folk you see here have come to flee from the Others, and think that many brothers were in the battle with your nuncle or with me at Hardhome. Melisandre, who always spoke of Stannis as a saviour, probably thinks the same too. Queen Selyse…well, she is torn between her role as a Queen and the fact that her faith seems to…consider me as someone more important than her lord and king.”

“I…I understand. Jon, if we hadn’t talked like good old times before speaking of such things, I would see you differently as well. I mean, Stannis and Aly seemed to take the message seriously, but…first I wanted to see you, and then…I admit I tried to rationalize and think you might just have been gravely wounded, and might have passed out, and Melisandre could have some great healing skills.”

“There is no doubt. I was not breathing. I was left on the snowy ground as Brothers fought each other over what happened, and as Wildlings joined the fight, followed by the Baratheons’ men-at-arms.”

“It is perfectly understandable that men who saw you first kill one of those beings, then come back from the dead, see you as something else. I would be in awe and a little terrified too, if it were not for the fact that…well, you sure have grown up, as I did, but you are still the Jon I remembered, after all.”

“But you understand now how things are going and where? The mutineers…they were my last act as a Lord Commander. I called back a few trusted and valuable men from Eastwatch and Long Barrow in order to ensure some sort of order in what was going to follow. I had the mutineers executed. I decided not to trust anyone, so I executed all those who balked at my orders, and Cregan Karstark as well. Many people will say I showed no mercy, and acted like a butcher…but, as you said, the Night’s Watch has seen two commanders killed by a mutiny in a short lapse of time. It cannot happen anymore. Besides, the numbers of the Watch have been decreasing, not to mention the honour of the men coming to the Wall. I…I had to save the institution somehow, but…all that happened, and the Baratheons’ interventions… well, there is no other way to tell it….I _named_ Edd, Edd Tollett - you met him - the new Commander. He does not seem to remember he has the command, though. It might be it is my fault…considering I am still here. My watch _has_ ended, so I am free. But the Night’s Watch as we knew it has ended too. You see, the men stabbed me because I…wanted to march south to Winterfell, and because my attitude towards the Baratheons and the Wildlings had not been accepted by all men. They identified me as a major threat to the Watch’s existence, ironically, and for that they plotted against me and killed me. But the truth is, Jory, that there is no future for the Watch without the Wildlings and the Baratheons. There is no future for it if they don’t continue what I started: manning as many castles as possible, integrating the Free Folk into the Kingdom, preparing for the war for the dawn. The queen’s men intervention marked the end of the Watch’s neutrality, there is no denying it. I _formally_ resigned because I wanted to live as a Stark again, not so much because I wanted to preserve the Watch: if I only cared for the institution, I would have never have appointed a successor. As things stand right now, I could have resumed my watch and continued my cooperation with the Wildlings and the Baratheons, or I could have let the brothers elect another Commander…but I realised trying to claim my place as the last living son of Eddard Stark was the only chance I have to be able to do something for Winterfell, and for the people I sent there to save the girl I believed was Arya as well, provided at least Mance is still alive.”

“I agree with you, Jon, as much as it is hard for Northerners to avail some sort of…dishonour towards the Night’s Watch. And let us not mention how hard it is for me, Lady Jorelle Mormont…But it seems things have changed, too much for us to continue the way we used to deal with them before…”

“Winter is coming. Now I see what it means. It is not just about the harvest.”

“And with it the Others and their army of the dead, it seems. We cannot ignore the non-political part, Jon…oh, I am so glad we stayed with Lord Howland for a while!”

“Lord Howland?”

“My mom, Lyra and I stayed with Lord Howland Reed for a while. Lyra is still there. It seems like Lord Howland knows far more about these things. It is not just the fact the crannogmen master a wide range of ways of using plants, herbs, and even animals to heal, to do things, to kill. It seems like his…faith in the Old Gods is true, and different, and his approach to our tales is different, too. He made a point of teaching us things. I thought it was just to survive the winter and to have more resources for fighting our way to Winterfell, but all these things you say make me think there could be more. He…reminds me of this Lady Melisandre, to be honest. I think we should talk with them both, Jon.”

“ _We_?” Jon managed to smile to her, touched by her straightforwardness and by her loyalty.

“We had the luck to be friends. I bet Lyra will feel the same way as soon as we can hear from her. Besides, it seems like you truly need a friend and an ally who is not a former sworn brother, or a Wildling. Things are changing, but not so fast that we can ignore all the boundaries our society used to have. But I understand if you prefer asking my sister Lyanna to advise you. Stannis will love it!”

“Friends and allies, then?”

“I don’t know if this is how it usually happened before, but I am glad to have my first advisor already.”

 “So, we already have something to begin with: we know we need dragonglass, Valyrian steel…what else?”

“Fire kills the wights. Not the Walkers, though. For them we need dragonglass and Valyrian steel, as you said.”

“It is something to begin with, Jon. And we have the one man who came back from death on our side. It must mean something. You can be as pessimistic as you want, but it **_has_** to mean something.”

“Melisandre says so as well, but there is still much we have to understand. She had foreseen some things, some others she had misinterpreted. She has powers. But where do they come from? She believes in her Lord of Light…yet I haven’t seen this God.”

“But we have her, and we have Lord Howland. And it seems like Aly knows something as well.”

“You mentioned that before. What do you mean exactly by that?”

“Well, her…faith in the Old Gods seems to have grown a lot. I told you, she believes these powers actually come from the Old Gods. She has never been particularly pious, so there must have been something that made her change her views. Unfortunately, I had no time to investigate further. She seemed to have things to tell us, indeed, and I think she will tell them as soon as we meet her. But between her new role as an advisor to Stannis and as the new guide for the Northerners, and considering also the fact that Stannis wanted to send Jeyne and Tycho away as soon as it was possible, well, it is not like we really had the chance to talk about other things than my and mom’s time with Lord Howland, and Robb’s will.”

“What do you think about Stannis?”

“You know, one might say many things about him…but he really cares for Westeros. He came to help you on the Wall. He then came to help us in the North, gave us back Deepwood Motte and is fighting to free Winterfell. He even came to accept the most unlikely advisor in political and military matters he could have imagined to have on his side, I mean my sister. And his heir is that sweet yet unfortunate girl, Shireen. We might do much worse.”

Jon felt reassured by the discovery that one of his friends and bannermen – or was it ‘ _bannerpeople_ ’ now? – was so clear-minded and sure. Friendships combined to political alliances were nothing new: his father had even started a successful rebellion out of friendship with Robert, and he had considered even Lord Howland and Lord Jorah as friends, at least for a while.

Although, Jon came to think, for all the things his new advisor shared with the former Lord of Bear Island, Jorelle was not the gruff bear of a man her cousin used to be. Quite on the contrary, she displayed quick wits, a lot of humour, very outgoing manners, and  - Jon had to admit – pleasant looks. Not the breath-taking, seemingly royal beauty of a woman like Val, sure, but her tall figure, the strength, the long, dark brownish hair and the blue eyes she shared with her cousin and namesake combined in an uncommon form of wild beauty. After all, Dacey, her oldest sister, was one of the beauties of the North.

But while Jon was lost in his thoughts, Jorelle was still there, watching him intently. She wanted to appreciate again how much the former sullen boy of Winterfell had grown, and she took in his long face, his mid-long dark curls, and his dark eyes, darker than Lord Eddard’s had been, and actually far more expressive. Only a shadow of his boyhood was still there, and probably even that shadow would go away if he were to grow a beard as his father had done. A beard that, actually, would become him, she honestly thought without any shame: a Mormont would never shy away from honest appreciation of a fellow human, after all. Nevertheless, that was _not_ what Jorelle wanted to discuss now. “You _are_ deep in thoughts!  If you keep doing that, everybody will think that it is Lord Eddard who has come back from the dead!”

_Yet another quip from Jorelle._ “Well, I think many would interpret you remark as a compliment, _my lady_.”

“I told you before: there is no need to over-complicate things. It was neither a compliment, nor an offence, just a statement. You look very much like Lord Eddard if you brood like that. I remember him clearly doing that. One could also say you remind me of Jorah, another champion in brooding, but your face is really the one thing you inherited from Lord Eddard. My mom and all the older lords unanimously remarked behind your back that you were born with a Stark face, and that it was ironic, considering they all denied you your family name. But now you finally have it!” and Jorelle reached out for his arm, clasping it slightly above his wrist in a friendly and warm gesture.

Jon decided to get back at Jorelle for all her quips and a good part of her sarcasm and _excessive_ openness, and let his arm slide in her clasp enough to get hold of her hand, lift it and plant a courteous kiss on her back. “I thank you, my lady, for your _courteous words._ I will forever keep them in my heart, and they will keep me warm during the winter, alive during the many trials I have to face…”

“Oh, Jon! You are not believable! Besides, you make it sound like _we_ were not capable of kindness too, and you know we are!” and while saying these words, Jorelle squeezed Jon’s hand a little. Jon thus reciprocated the squeeze, although he felt ironically defeated in his intention of mocking his friend back.

Jorelle took another good look at Jon in order to try to read his thoughts. She was very curious to get to know her former playmate again, so to speak: between the last time they had sparred at Winterfell and made fun of the adults, and the present day he had been a proud owner of a direwolf, a Brother of the night’s Watch, a Commander of said Watch. And now he was her new liege-lord, and she was to be one of his – hopefully most trusted – advisors. _Would that work out well?_

Jon persisted in his shy smile, and then seemed to slide back to brooding. He lowered his hand slowly, but kept his stare on Jorelle, although he looked like his head was somewhere else.

Jorelle could not have it, and felt compelled to speak out her mind completely. “You know…if you grew a beard, like your father, you would not only look like him: a beard would become you very well!” Jon was startled by Jorelle’s sudden open statement, and she smiled with a grin of satisfaction.

Jon unconsciously brought his hand to his jaw, and passed his fingers on jaw and cheek. “Is this…part of your wisdom as an advisor?”

“Why, it might be, _Lord Stark_!”

From Jorelle’s point of view, there was nothing wrong in saying the truth. A pleasant-to-look-at Lord was surely better than a plain one. From Jon’s point of view, it was…very strange to hear such words from a woman of the Kingdoms…

“For all your enmity with the Wildlings, you Mormonts – or is it you Bear Islanders? – are very much like them. The last time a woman dared speak like that to me, it was a… spearwife of the Free Folk.”

“You know, I do believe we are not that much different, we Bear Islanders and the Wildlings. That is probably why we have fought each other so much. Although we prefer axes, maces and swords to spears. But we are the only folks where women fight too.”

“Would you say you Bear Islanders are Wildlings who kneeled? By the way, they like axes too.”

“Lord Stark…japing? Again? Twice in a single conversation?”

“I am merely listening to my advisor, _Lady Jorelle_ , and learning.”

 “You haven’t told me yet if the _spearwife_ asked you to grow a beard, or if she liked you the way you are” said Jorelle, who had not missed the softened tone with which he had spoken of Wildling women and the emotion in his eyes.

Jon reddened.

“Oh, Jon, please! There is nothing wrong with experiencing things all humans experience, don’t you think?”

“It might be. But it is more difficult than that.”

“I already told you twice you sometimes make things difficult when they are not. I suspect this might be the third one…but maybe it is not the time for another tale. As pleasant as it was talking to you, I must admit I am looking forward to sleeping in a bed again, next to a fire. And we still have to define what we will do next. We will have to prepare for our journey back to Stannis’s camp, or to Winterfell.”

“Which means we will have to talk to Queen Selyse, and to Melisandre, who is, after all, the real queen. I think you might have noticed at dinner, but a warning is always fair.”

“Yes, of course, and to Edd and…who is the Wildling leader? They must have someone.”

“It is not exactly like that, but there are a few people who are more relevant than others, and who will be glad to talk to us, which is not bad at all. There is also someone you might remember. Alys Karstark. She has played no role in her uncle’s betrayal: on the contrary, she was a victim, and she was the one who alerted me to the plot. She fled her cousin and asked for my protection. Thus, she is now married to a sort of a Lord of the Wildlings, Sigorn, the Magnar of Thenn.”

“It sounds like you had already started acting as Lord Stark, Jon.” Jorelle was surprised. “I must say, it is no wonder you had to face a mutiny, after all. If all other choices could have been easy to explain…combining a wedding for a bannerman’s daughter, Jon?”

“I couldn’t let her be forcibly married to her uncle.”

“I am not saying you did something awful, or at least I hope Alys is not too unhappy with yet another arranged marriage. I am only saying…this is what lords do. Which is not a bad thing at all, if we look at it from where we are staying now, on the verge of raising a new army and leading it first to reconquer Winterfell, then against what is coming at us from beyond the Wall.”

“We have to leave a part of this army here with the Watch. We do not know what is going to happen here at the Wall.”

“Of course. But we are talking of the ‘new’ Watch, which we agreed is not completely neutral anymore. You will still have to leave orders, be it to Edd, be it to all the brothers. I would talk to all of them. First, we report everything to Queen Selyse, you kneel to her husband as Lord Stark of Winterfell, and strengthen that bond. Then we set matters clear with the Wildlings and the Watch. Melisandre is an entirely different matter: the most important thing is that we have enough time to talk to her.”

“It seems like we are of a mind, me and you, my lady!”

“Which only means we are free to rest, my lord!”

Both Jon and Jorelle smiled.

“Good night, Jorelle. It was a joy on all counts to see you” and he bowed slightly.

“Good night, Jon. I feel the same” and she curtseyed, parting from him with one last mocking.

Just before Jon could close his door again, a black shadow flew inside his room and spoke the words _Corn, Stark, King._

 


	6. Hands on Meereen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jorah and Tyrion adapt to Meereen in order to pursue their jointly agreed political and scientific/esoteric agenda. DarkTyrion is lurking in the shadow, but we get to see something. Jorah gets back in touch with a part of himself that had been sleeping for a while.

Still tired from his past battles, but feeling safer than during his previous nights in the pyramid, Jorah treated himself to a night of deep sleep. For the following days, sleep became a friend he was happy to meet at the end of a relatively peaceful day. The boy-crow did not visit him in his dreams, a thing which was partially disappointing, considering that he was on a quest with Tyrion to find out what was happening in the world, and that a possible presence from the realm of magic would have been welcome to the current situation. But…well, one cannot have it all, and surely, of all men on earth, _Jorah Mormont_ could not have it all, he thought, however not as an expression of self-pity, but as a sarcastic remark about his adventures. His everyday life was overall quite pleasant, and he felt full of mild hopes for the future: anyone who escaped from a slave in a cage to a conditionally reinstated advisor and dragonrider would feel the

During the day, he was usually allowed to take a stroll, to feed Rhaegal, to read (a task that he and Tyrion had acknowledged to be the most important of all), to support Ser Barristan in training a few young squires (all the time admiring the Bold’s fabled swordsmanship), to spar with some Unsullied or Dothraki (or both). They were still at war, and training was essential for him - his time as a slave had eaten some of his muscles away - and for all the new recruits even more.

Besides, he had long talks with Tyrion about politics and dragons. Tyrion remembered from Volantis how knowledgeable Jorah was, something he had underestimated due to the grim mood the knight had been most of the time and to the _peculiar relationship_ they had in the beginning. Still, Tyrion was pissed: a Ghiscari city was not exactly the right place to research about dragonlore. Sources simply were not enough. In addition, Jorah’s recent lack of new magic experiences was frustrating him even more.

The most important thing, however, strategically speaking, was keeping Jorah safe from attacks, like those of the Sons of the Harpy…and from Victarion Greyjoy, who could not be trusted - all agreed on this. Victarion was a demanding but necessary ally, but unfortunately never cared to hide his discontent for his not-so-high state at Daenerys’ court, especially as compared to that of the “beggar dragonrider from Bear Island”, as he often referred to Jorah.

If only Jorah and Tyrion had known that Victarion Greyjoy’s contempt and resentment had much more to do with a certain, mysterious dragon horn in his possession than with Jorah being a Bear Islander…

…but if they had known, it would have meant that the duo’s voyage towards dragon mastery would be almost at an end. This was clearly not the case.

Victarion still had not abandoned the idea of ordering three oarsmen to blow the horn once each, thus trying to control at least one dragon, if not all of them. The recent _developments_ , nevertheless, had forced him to be more cautious. If Jorah Mormont could control a dragon without a horn, or without any of the rituals men like Aeron or Moqorro would go through, it meant that the horn in itself was no guarantee of success. And Victarion Greyjoy wanted success, very much. He could not blow his chances by blowing the horn – pun intended – if he was not sure he would at least command the remaining dragon and be equal with his rival. He was partially glad he had resorted to fight without letting his thralls blow the Valyrian relic beforehand. His previous plan had seemed the greatest thing he had ever thought before. But then, a dark feeling had taken possession of him: a sudden feeling of dread, followed by a very dark and confusing dream, of dark flames eating him as if they were a dark beast-like shape. Something inside him had told him that it was not good. _Euron’s gifts were poisoned_ , he already knew. Moqorro’s warning that the horn must be claimed with blood, resounding in his head, sounded like an invitation to turn Daenerys’ army against his brother.

The red priest received a very different treatment. The difference was due to the minister’s sincere faith in his _god of light, fire and warmth_ and in the resulting respect he showed towards Jorah. Moqorro came to visit the knight twice. He came, as he himself explained, to ‘behold the new servant of the flames’ and to give some blessings. Apart from a few insights on Jorah’s current good relationship with his dragon, Tyrion had prohibited Jorah from revealing anything from their previous discussion. On the other hand, Tyrion hoped that a red priest could unknowingly reveal something about his favourite creatures of fire, or simply have some knowledge he might want to share with Jorah, the vice-messianic figure in charge.

Upon seeing Moqorro for the first time in Meereen, Jorah could not refrain from asking the same question that Tyrion was dying to ask: “How did you survive the storm?” The priest answered: “I might ask the same of you. The Lord of Light has shown us darkness, and let us be enclosed by the storm, yet has protected us from  being swallowed. Only those who have seen darkness know how reassuring the light is, and will always look for it.” Jorah gave up very soon trying to follow the priest’s reasoning: never a friend of riddles and prophecies, not to mention quite nervous for all he had been through, from Mirri Maz Duur to the boy-crow, he simply let Moqorro be a sort of confidant and caretaker, without bothering too much to analyse his words. The man might have powers, as Daenerys had, after all, but splitting things in darkness/bad and light/good was far from convincing for him. _Even Bear Island’s children tales had more layers than that!_ Jorah thought.

Rhaegal seemed to sense when Jorah was outside looking for him, and the man was also very keen on trying to see the beast and call it…the dragon usually came, although not the same way a trained dog usually runs to his master, of course.  Rhaegal, his green scales seemingly growing more lucent every day, was glad to be fed by the big knight, even if it showed his sort of affection in its own distinguished and majestic way. Jorah, therefore, one day even dared caressing the dragon’s snout, on Tyrion’s suggestion (“ _He is an animal! You would cuddle and scratch your dog, wouldn’t you?_ ”). To be completely honest, Jorah had feared for an instant Tyrion was trying to kill him upon finding out in some book he could take over as a dragonrider if, Gods and demons alike forbid, Jorah was killed. Little did Jorah know that he was not hitting so far from the mark: Tyrion was _very open_ to the possibility of Rhaegal killing Jorah. The little Lannister convinced himself that _knowledge had its price_ , and there was no other way to learn how to communicate with the beasts so far than by doing. Therefore, someone had to try and begin some sort of communication…Tyrion’s subconscious suggested another explanation, but his rational mind dismissed the thought of a childish reaction of envy towards the dragonrider. Lucky for Jorah, Rhaegal appreciated the display of affection, and – although it made it clear that it was not an animal made for cuddling – he started showing Jorah when and how he could scratch it.

Viserion appeared too along his brother, sometimes, but it remained distant. It only accepted food: it was clearly used to Jorah, whom Tyrion had then renamed “Father of Dragons”, but it took some time to the cream-white dragon to allow Tyrion to come near itself. Needless to say, Tyrion was the happiest man on earth the day Viserion let him come near and accepted some roasted goat from him.

The only person Jorah did not see was Penny. Practical-minded as he had become due to his numerous trials and disasters in life, he usually did not worry much for the young woman, whom he never planned or wished to take along, after all. On the other hand, he had become accustomed to her presence. He had no reason to wish her unwell: he had even actively advised Tyrion about how to protect her from trouble and maybe even harm on the _Selaesori Qhoran_.

 _Strange_ , he thought. _Why isn’t she around anymore?_ Jorah hypothesized that maybe she had resorted to staying in her room the same way he had once suggested her to stay in her cabin. After a few days, the big knight concluded that his hypothesis was reasonable enough, and tried to discard his pessimistic thoughts about the matter.

\--

One night, Jorah slept so deep and so long that he startled when he felt and heard somebody shaking him. “Ser Jorah! Ser Jorah!” called a sweet voice. He opened his eyes and found little Missandei waking him up, along with Irri and Jhiqui attending to _something_ (he wasn’t completely awake) in the same room.

Jorah was surprised to see the young handmaiden in his room. He had known Irri and Jhiqui for long, but the little girl from Naath was a more recent acquaintance and they never had many exchanges between her arrival into Daenerys’s entourage and his exile. Still a little numb and dumb, he blinked a few times. It was Missandei indeed. Well, it was time to get to know her better, apparently. “Good morning, Missandei.”

“Good morning, Ser Jorah.”

The other two handmaidens joined the greetings: “Good morning, _Jorah Andahli_ ” they said in Dothraki. At least they had no mocking grin on their face, as it had been when he had to let his “wounds” tended…He finally noticed why they were doing: they had brought a pile of fabric, probably clothes.

The light outside was very strong, and he suspected he might have slept longer than he usually did. Missandei was looking at the big knight intently. Was she wondering why an old man like him had slept like a baby?

“How are you, Ser Jorah?” she spoke.

“I am fine, thank you. And you?” _Amazing conversation._

“This one is fine, thank you. Lord Tyrion sent me to you.”

“ ** _Lord_** Tyrion?” _Lord of what?_ What had happened while he was sleeping? Had he been sleeping for a night only, or did something extraordinary happen _again_? Jorah hoped for a while to be still dreaming, maybe a vision induced by the boy-crow. Although, if that was the case, Tyrion being a Lord continued bothering him.

“He wanted to be sure you were rested, and he also asked me to bring those in your chambers” and she pointed at a stack of old books, and then reprised her intent observation of Jorah’s features.

 _She might be scared by the demon tattoo_ Jorah thought.

Missandei was, indeed, watching the demon face on his cheek, but it was not because she was scared. “You did not submit.” She simply said.

Jorah understood. “No, I did not.”

“You are a man who likes to do things his own way.”

“Are there people who don’t want things their own way?” Jorah answered gruffly, and honestly, as he was used to.

“There are people who learn to accept things, or who get accustomed to letting things go, or simply do not resist much and give up fighting after a while. This is one thing you share with the Queen, though: you are both strong-headed to a fault.”

Jorah smiled.

“You gave her those books.” It was a statement, not a question. Jorah nodded. “She took them out after she sent you away, and read them, you know?” Jorah stared in surprise. “She missed you.”

Now the surprise was total. “She did?”

“I saw her with my eyes. Lord Tyrion says to keep them, maybe re-read them. He also wants you to take a bath and then join him first in his room, and from there you will go together to the pillared hall. You are to take part in the first official ruling council since you won the battle. Irri and Jhiqui have brought you new breeches, new shirts, and a new surcoat. Tyrion says he had it made like the one you lost when enslaved: he remembered it quite good, and there was also your coat of arms on one of the books. It is not wool though, he warns you. It is no place to wear wool.”

“Tyrion must have forgotten that winter is coming.”

Jorah’s statement sounded very strange to the three handmaidens, who stared at him like he were a madman. The knight decided to let it go.

Irri said: “Your bath is ready, _Jorah Andahli_. You go in Tyrion’s chamber. After, you go with him to Ser Grandfather.”

“Who, I presume, is Ser Barristan.”

The girls giggled. “Daario names him so. All now name him so. Is funny. Is not a khal, is a grandfather.”

Jorah was surprised to hear a Dothraki using the Westerosi concept of grandfather. In a khalasar, either one was able to fight and earn honour – and Ser Barristan was a fine swordsman and warrior, nicknamed the Bold not in vain – or one was not, and therefore was either dead or one of those on the cart. But probably the girls, after being exposed to Westerosi for so long, had absorbed more and more of their culture. It had not been much different for him.

And _of course_ the Dothraki girls would find Daario Naharis _so_ funny, with his arakh, his lithe body, his flamboyant appearance.

\--

Jorah hurried to Tyrion’s room. The young Lannister greeted him as if nothing had happened at all –  Jorah suspected many, many things had happened, instead – and as if just a few hours from their last long conversation about strategies had passed.

“Tyrion, what is going on here? I cannot avoid but feeling a little left out.”

“My dear Jorah, I have prepared everything we need to push through in order to strengthen our position at Daenerys’ court.”

“And, of course, you did not feel the need to keep me involved, or even informed.”

Tyrion ignored Jorah’s remark completely. “We need strategic power to reach our goals, politically and, well, you know _what else_. I only need you to share your knowledge about the Greyjoys, and occasionally to remember the audience all you have done for Daenerys. About the Greyjoys…what feelings does the name ‘Euron’ awaken in you?”

“Nothing good, but I suspect somehow you already discovered enough about him, and by ‘enough’ I mean something you could not have learned at Casterly Rock, or in King’s Landing.”

“I expect something more than ‘nothing good’, but…yes, I happen to know that Victarion will try to present himself as the King or Lord of the Iron Islands, or the prospective King or Lord, counting on our relative isolation from Westeros…whereas in reality he has been sent by Euron. And many people among the Ironborn fear this Euron more than anything, dragons included. So, what is your contribution?”

“Victarion was the hand your kin saw attack your fleet during their rebellion, but Euron was the mastermind behind it. Victarion might claim he never gave up the Old Way, but Euron does not have to claim it. He **_is_** the Old Way made flesh, and probably even more than that. The rumours you heard on Westeros, or even here, don’t do him any justice, I believe. He loved raiding: many raiders we caught openly named him as their inspiration; not Quellon, not Balon, but Euron. From what we caught, the man has been meddling in things no one would dare even approach, and before he fled he apparently gave some specific instructions and a few hints to a few, ahem, supporters of him. If he, as I seem to understand here, has come back from Essos after a trip to places abandoned by most men, well…nothing good can come of that. There are dark things in Essos, very dark things. It might be that whatever touched me and Daenerys that day in the tent is only a tiny portion of the horrors hidden in this part of the earth. But…what of Balon?”

“Oh, Balon died in _mysterious circumstances_ , we were told in King’s Landing. Of course, the Ironborn have no doubt that Balon was killed by Euron, who is now the self-styled King.”

“The Others take all the Greyjoys! If that is true…”

“Aren’t we actively exploring _dark things_ as well? What do you worry about, _dragonrider_? You came out of a tent where a witch was meddling with spirits. It did not improve your looks, but you came to control a dragon. Whatever Euron did in Essos, we are not so far behind, or at least I have reason to believe that you are not so far behind. However, today our focus is more political than that. Victarion has been carefully omitting that he is here on behalf of his brother. Which means…he does not like his brother, but he wants to use him. I see an opening here for us.”

“I guess…I’ll just have to trust you. After all, I’ve seeing you plotting, and you saved my life. And I’ve seen you playing cyvasse.”

\--

If Ser Barristan had thought a council would bring some calm and order in Meereen, he was very wrong.

Tyrion Lannister officially declaring his personal war on the remaining Lannisters of Casterly Rock and thus explaining his decision of joining forces with Queen Daenerys went smoothly: no one really cared for the morality of his reasons, but wanted to test the strength thereof, and his degree of motivation. Barristan only had to advise him to leave out the part about _raping his sister_ when reporting to the Queen. Ser Jorah luckily backed him on that point.

The tension around Ser Jorah was tangible. Daario Naharis was not a stupid man, and he could not like the idea of having around a man so stupidly in love with his lover; therefore, he was the first one to speak against the knight, whom he described as a big, brutish man with a long history of despicable deeds. Of course, Daario’s motivations had no chance to be considered impartial, since he had boasted a lot of his _special connection_ and _services_ to the Queen, and since the Queen’s _satisfaction_ had often been _loud_ enough to back his claim. Not to mention that a sellsword criticising a knight for his conduct was a clear case of crow calling the raven black. Many others who did not know Jorah well enough openly did not trust him, first and foremost the sellswords commanders, with the exception of Ben Plumm. Ben was strangely sneering, and observing the turmoil calmly but intently. He only added that the man had crossed back through Essos just to help defend his Queen’s city, was a big and strong man with a rich battle experience, and was more worth having on one’s own side than on the enemy’s side, or in the soil mucking it. The same degree of distrust the sellswords commanders showed came from the other Meereenese supporters of Daenerys as well – the four guardsmen of the late king, and Skahaz. A strange silence came from Grey Worm and Marselen. The Dothraki, on the contrary, remembered Jorah’s behaviour towards Daenerys from the beginning, and said that deeds mattered more than anything. Victarion said that he had not been present, and he couldn’t know enough to speak on the case, but that on the Iron Island the man would have been killed immediately in some cruel manner for treason, no discussion needed.

That had opened the gates to all seven hells at once.

Tyrion Lannister had asked to speak again. “Lord Victarion, what does on the Iron Island count for treason? Hiding that it is your brother Euron, self-styled King of the Isles and the North, who sent you there? Claiming his plot and his power as yours? Oh, and you probably are sincere in your heart, because you mean to turn your cloak on your brother…but still, you are as much of a two-timing bastard as our Jorah was for a while, if not more. Only there is no doubt where Jorah’s true loyalties lie now, and have been lying for a while. You, Lord Victarion, are most likely only loyal to yourself instead. So you should better be careful when you accuse others, for the same measure could be applied to you. For this reason, I advise you to accept Jorah as one of the many men who will fight for Daenerys, unless you don’t want to have your ships confiscated. Because Jorah can easily do that, or have you forgotten who is the dragonrider here? Instead, you will confess you are here to ally with Daenerys in hope to gain personal glory and achieve personal goals, as almost all of us are. You will be allowed to raid our enemies on the way to Westeros and in Westeros, in a manner and amount that is to be discussed with the Queen herself. We will find an agreement that benefits both Daenerys’ cause and your one. But you will cooperate, and you will not complain. No, Ser Barristan did not know any of this. But I thought wise of me to start putting my resources in service of Queen Daenerys before being formally accepted as an ally. And I am glad I did, for no one wants allies whose interest and motivation is unclear."

Victarion, although as red as a priest of the God of Light, knew when he was cornered, and knew when it wasn’t the case to push it. It wasn’t bending the knee: it was just adapting to the situation.

If anybody thought the worst part was over, this somebody was very wrong. Tyrion had to establish his position at court, and what strategy to win people over was better than displaying his skills while at the same time uncovering someone’s faults?

Thus, Tyrion’s next victim was none other than the Hand of the Queen and acting regent himself.

“So, Ser Barristan, let me see if I have understood correctly. Daenerys exiled the man who formed her, the Westerosi who seems to know every fucking thing about Essos, the man who advised her to buy Unsullied, elite soldiers who – if not bought by her – would have been bought by _someone else_. This _someone else_ would not have freed them, presumably, but would have let them live out their days of service in that misery that is enslavement. I know much about it. This _someone else_ also might have used the Unsullied **_against_** the Queen. The queen exiled the man who always gave her practical-minded advice, like the one of heading straight to Westeros instead of entangling in Ghiscari politics.

She exiled him because, you tell me, ‘He was arrogant’. I hear now he simply stated that his deeds have always been for the queen’s cause, that he fought for her and saved her life multiple times, and that he never once **_acted_** against her. For these reasons, he thought a forgiveness would only be a formality. I know this man: he is not one who speaks courtly and pleasantly, so I imagine he must have been the usual rude and gruff bear, even when pleading his cause. I met his father too: there is nothing that can be done to improve the Mormonts’ manners, I fear. However, what kind of advisor lets a queen exile a man out of personal feelings?

My father usually punished my horrible nephew, the late King Joffrey, when he threw a tantrum. You actively encouraged her to exile a man because…the idea of being betrayed hurt her inside more than the betrayal itself actually hurt her bodily, or concretely. Good advisors would have made her see that a ruler who succumbs to emotions, or to childish visions and reactions, is no good ruler.

And in case you want to argue that Daenerys had to re-establish that she was the queen and that Jorah should not have _dared_ to tell the queen what to do… my father also openly told my nephew that a king who has to say ‘I am the king’ is no king. If she feels challenged by a sincere and devoted advisor contradicting her, then she probably is no fit to rule the Seven Kingdoms. And neither are you to advise her.

You, Ser Barristan, were happy to get rid of Ser Jorah: you had spoken against the dishonour of buying slave soldiers, and in favour of…what kind of honour, exactly? **_Your honourable plan_** was asking the man who - in league with her deluded brother -   sold Daenerys’s maidenhead to a Dothraki khal for an army. An army paid by whom? Paid by… him? I don’t know if it is worse seen from the perspective of honour or from the perspective of strategy. Those who pay minstrels and fools get to choose what songs and acts they play at the feast. You would have had her owned by a cheesemonger. Again.

Oh, and having Quentyn Martell crisped by Rhaegal… oh, I am sure Doran will be happy to have yet another family member killed in terrible circumstances. The one family that would have backed a revenge on the Lannisters without any thought…now alienated.

Seriously, Barristan, is there something that has not turned to shit since Jorah was exiled? As soon as my dragon saddle is ready, Jorah is going to look for her. What should we tell her?”

“I suppose you forgot to mention my actions against Hizdahr in your recounting…”

“Oh, no, Ser Barristan, supporting a coup was your one fine moment as a politician. But I fear you are probably regretting doing it, because it was dishonourable.

Another thing, Ser Barristan: have you ever asked yourself who might this elusive ‘Harpy’ be, or how many ‘Harpies’ there might truly be in this city’” Tyrion asked.

Ser Barristan had no good answer to this question. Since he was not only a man without a good answer, but also a man who did not like dishonour and lies, he started thinking of an honest response. His reply, obviously, never came, or at least not soon enough for Tyrion.

“Queen Daenerys and you have occupied a city, and have destroyed their social and economic system. As terrible and unjust as it was, it was their way of life. However, apart from destroying slavery, it seems like Daenerys had no concrete idea about how to rebuild this city. It also seems to me that you, my dear knight, never dared challenge her with this observation. Therefore, we are here today to discuss about bands of locals trying to gain something from the utter chaos you have brought to them. The most passionate supporters of freedom against slavery have, of course, found their place in Daenerys’ court, or are happy of this new world, starving and plagues aside…but the former slavers and many other people without strong convictions are still looking for a new place in the future. And some of them have been hired by the Yunkai’i. It is not just _slavers fighting you_ , Barristan. Many people suspect Daenerys will one day leave Slaver’s Bay, and even if she does not, they know they all have to fight for a position in the society that will rise from the ashes of what had been. They are fighting for this: for a place in the future. And they are divided in many different groups, all fighting each other, most of them fighting you as well, some of them revelling in chaos. What do you say, my dear Shakaz? How do you like the chaos you precipitated this city into?”

Shakaz went as red as Ser Barristan, a result that made Tyrion very proud.

“Oh, don’t be so modest. I admit the idea of planning a few violent actions that could have been blamed on your enemies, just to reinforce a more violent course against the Ghiscari nobility and against all enemies or moderates was a good one. Pity I found out nonetheless. Well, there is no such thing as a _perfect plan_. A plan that is uncovered as such ceases to be a good plan, and thus cannot be a perfect plan by definition.”

“If a sharper course would have been chosen, we would probably be rid of the true Harpies by now.”

“Right now, you only managed to get innocent hostages killed under your nose by the same enemy you claim you want to get rid of. The funny thing is, your actions made the Harpy’s actions possible, and vice versa. You were busy killing Hizdahr and the Harpy’s men were busy killing the hostages. I will not mention the fact that you know very well who the Harpy is, but prefer not to tell, because fighting underground and grooming chaos and hatred is much better in your opinion.”

Ser Barristan had to ask: “May we know who the **_Harpies_** are then, since it seems that I am only a terrible man, and considering that I don’t know who they are?”

“Oh, my dear Barristan, I only said that everything turned to shit since you gained more power in this court. I never made a judgement about your person, whom I actually hold in great esteem, as long as you don’t try to be a politician. Anyway, I guess you will be pleased to learn that the, let’s call it ‘official’ Harpy is somebody you did not trust much. The local high priestess, Galazza Galare.”

Jorah had developed a huge headache so far. He was not the only one, to be honest, but he was the only one who dared interrupt by asking: “How did you find out all these things?”

“Oh, my dear bear. I will say it when I am finished, and I am not finished. The council has to know that some killings were actually backed by the Yunkai’i and not by the, let us call them, _real_ Sons of the Harpy. And the most daring attempted murder was actually backed by a Qartheen group of…wizards, shadowbinders, whatever you want to call them.”

 _Qarth._ “You mean the Warlocks of Qarth?” asked Jorah, all too familiar with the group of dark magic meddlers and their pursuits.

“Oh, yes. They seem to hold a big grudge against Daenerys. I guess you might know more about the reasons of said grudge. They do not love you either, or the Dothraki, for all that matters. So you’d better watch out.”

“It is an honour when feelings are reciprocated.”

“Anyway, in case some here have not understood, the Qartheen tried to kill Daenerys with the poisoned locusts. And the most interesting thing is…Shakaz knew, but did not do anything to prevent such an attempt, because he was sure Hizdahr or the Harpy or both would have been blamed for it. Which was something that worked for his plan.”

Tyrion continued analysing Meereen’s political situation for a very long time, convincing everybody that he was the only one with an understanding, a plan and a vision for the city. Not that it wasn’t true, after all: he had a lot of experience, and had wisely used Jorah, Ben Plumm, Missandei, and many other people in order to learn quickly and proficiently about Essos and Meereen.

And even if he hadn’t convinced everybody with his recognition and his proposals, the Second Sons and the Unsullied men watching over the council, heavily armed, would have been ready to play their part, a part they had been taught efficiently by Tyrion’s promises of gold from Casterly Rock, and of another dimension of freedom.

The council ended with Tyrion hailed as the new regent, a prospective Hand of the Queen – if Daenerys would agree, of course - , and – since he was a considerate man – head of a _Triumvirate_ with Barristan and Jorah, a trio meant to offer combined and different expertise in political, social, economic and military matters to the new, extended ruling council. Tyrion had to restrain himself in order not to laugh at the idea of Jorah being an _advisor in economic affairs_ , and then again at the idea of him _dealing with slavers_. The Triumvirate was also meant to honour the Targaryen’s three-headed dragon – Daenerys would be the “rider” that would ride such a “beast” – Tyrions’s fantasy and eloquence had no boundaries. Tyrion’s plan was to be discussed in detail in the following weeks, but was summarily announced in his main points. They included:

\- launching a development plan for the Bay (new name urgently needed) and for Meereen, based on a multi-cultural approach and on broadening their trade;

\- launching some urgent public works in order to improve hygiene and stop the spreading of diseases. Dragons would be used to burn corpses or infected materials;

\- implementing, under the ruling council’s control, an agreement on wages of former slaves, meant to refund former slavers by means of reducing costs and taxes, and to ensure former slaves that they would still have a roof over their heads, something to eat, and something to wear, no matter what;

\- quick and merciless handling of any threat to the Queen and to the Queen’s council. Trial by combat was abolished (yet another hilarious point for Tyrion);

\- planning several “expeditions” in order to gather “wealth and rewards” for all the Queen’s “new friends” (Ironborn, sellswords, Dothraki).

\--

Jorah had to ask Tyrion afterwards: “How…did you discover all those details?”

“Oh, my dear Jorah, if I must be honest, I have to thank you for it.”

“Me?”

“Yes. You inspired me. Buying your pardon by spying on the Targaryens, working for the Spider, buying another pardon by selling me to Daenerys…your ideas are pretty good, deep down. You recognise opportunities. I think your fault lies somewhere in the application. You are a practical-minded man, but also quick to rage, and you have your own tender heart: you get attached to people, to places; now that I know you better I would also dare say you’d probably get bored by sticking to a plan relentlessly… it makes for a perfect dragonrider, but _please_ leave the plotting to me.”

“You still haven’t told me how you did it.”

“My dear Ser Bear, I have used someone who also wanted to be used, and who wanted to use me. I struck a good deal with someone who was too happy to be a part of such a deal.”

A few instants of searching for an answer to the riddle, and then a bitter “ ** _Penny._** You used Penny. That’s why I never saw her recently.”

“Why the despising tone, my Bear? As I said, you inspired me. Spare me the comments about you changing your allegiance to Daenerys, or about my less than admirable reputation as a motivation to make a prisoner out of me. Learn how to push your schemes through, instead. You will win back all the islands you want to have.”

\--

Another fitful sleep for Ser Jorah Mormont, after his – and Tyrion’s – very successful first political council, was a well-deserved prize.

Every night, though, has to surrender before a sunrise. However, the reason Jorah had awoken now was not the filtering light, or one of the handmaiden coming in. Not even an Unsullied soldier barging in.

That morning the sun was _not_ the _only_ thing to _rise_ …Another phenomenon had occurred that was probably one of the concurring reasons for Jorah’s spontaneous sleep interruption.

It had been so long since Jorah Mormont had awakened with a glorious state of arousal, or had an erection in general: he esteemed it must have been probably since he was exiled. The poor girl in Selhorys had tried to make him hard by squirming on his lap, and he had honestly thought a girl with silver hair could have succeeded, even though she was not the _real thing_ but a poor young woman forced to earn money for her master like that. Nevertheless, it had not worked. He had been four times happy it had not worked.

The first, because Jorah Mormont had never, never once had to pay for sex in his life. He had to say his thanks to Bear Island’s lifestyle, to his two beloved wives, to a few tavern girls in Volantis, to the Dothraki lifestyle. His interest and skills in lovemaking, not to mention to a good disposition towards self-satisfaction, had helped too.

The second, because his love for Daenerys was nothing a quick fuck with an illusion could compare with.

The third, because had he successfully reached an erection and disappeared with the girl in Selhorys, he would have never seen Tyrion and kidnapped him.

The fourth, because - considering his usual luck - somehow someone somewhere would have surely learnt he had paid a slave for something, and he would have had yet another negative consequence to deal with.

His rock-hard morning wood was apparently back, though, and therefore, probably, his capability of having an erection in general was officially back too. He almost felt uneasy: it was like a new sensation, after so much time.

He often slept naked, like he had done that night, so he lifted the blanket and the covers and looked at that once very familiar sight. His manhood, long, broad enough for his length, smooth as velvet except for his hairy base, with big pumping veins, was leaning against his stomach, whose muscles underneath had become more evident thanks to his enslavement and his renewed warrior lifestyle. Once the moment of awe for the return of a once normal reaction of his body was past, his mind switched very quickly to different thoughts.

This time, not only his hand, but also his mind took care of his arousal. There was only one woman in his heart, only one woman he had thought of during his pleasure during the last two years, and that woman was now here with him in his imagination. It was not his calloused, strong hand: instead, in his fantasy, it was Daenerys’ hand that had taken his cock, squeezed it and started stroking it slowly. A fantasy in which they shared a bed and their lives, and in which she would be delighted to awaken beside him, having him hard, and to wake him up like that.

It was a sweet pleasure, but after a few strokes, it was not enough.

In his fantasy, he would have told her, or she would have understood it.

He spat in his hand, then, and imagined that, after a few caresses to her mound, her clit and her folds, and a languid kiss, Daenerys would straddle him to rub herself on his cock, thus teasing them both.

It was not his saliva, but her incredibly warm, slick and arousing wetness on his rod; her folds and her clit on his velvety skin. She would be incredibly aroused as well, and she would enjoy having him in such a submissive yet pleasurable role; she would make herself ready for him using him, yet giving him some torture-like pleasure as well. And then, his silvery and fiery queen would finally need him too much to continue that delicious foreplay, and would take him in her hand to impale herself. Some more saliva and a tighter grip followed this fictional moment playing in his mind. His strokes became more accurate, and more vigorous, and he imagined Daenerys riding him, searching for all the right angles to reach all the orgasms he could make her feel with his very willing and experienced body. Her long silvery strands and her teats bouncing, she would sometimes down at him, her eyes dimmed by pleasure, her face and expressions deformed by it; her hands on his chest, then on his shoulders, sometimes just lying there, sometimes rubbing and caressing; his hands on her thighs, on her hips, with some detour on her sensitive nipples and teats; his hips only just rocking a little. His cock would drown in her, his body and mind would be monopolised by pleasant sensations, as would her mind and her body. Her wet cunt would swallow the hard and scorching hot shaft, rejoicing in every single stroke, loving every single inch of it, rubbing her clit on his body when needed, to give her some quick orgasms that would leave her wanting for more, discovering new nuances of pleasure. Only the sounds of his cock hammering vigorously in Daenerys’ copious wetness, and their moans and whispers of pleasure would be heard. The incredible beauty and bliss of a hard cock sliding up and down a warm and sopping cunt between moans and screams of pleasure would be the only things that would matter. After a while, she would find the need for a deeper penetration, the kind where she only relied on his cock to rub her favourite internal spot and bring her to the most totalizing and shattering kind of orgasm. As soon as she would adjust her rhythm and movement accordingly, he would then reciprocate her blows by pounding her in return, gripping her hips tightly and rocking his own. She would bend over quickly to savour his passionate and warm tongue, to taste his lips, and he would give in gladly. He would also taste her neck, and lick and suck her nipples, making her moan even louder than before. Then she would sit up straight once again, to ensure his tip rubbed the exact spot she wanted to stimulate…only a few hard, powerful strokes and she would come once again, in the most beautiful way she could climax…

…and Jorah’s hand increased his speed accordingly…

…and then he pictured her, screaming for the incredible and deep pleasure, flooding his throbbing cock and his balls even more, and clenching him, his hardness making her waves of ecstasy even more powerful. With this image he reached his climax as well, as he imagined he would do after seeing her come like that, flooding her already drenched cunt with his cum, an incredible explosion of blissful sensations taking possession of his whole body and mind. His warm, creamy seed actually shot on his chest, smirching the hair between his bulging pectoral muscles. He spilled a lot: after all, it had been a very long time. Somehow, in the limbo of the immediate aftermath of his orgasm, he even found this sensation erotic and pleasant.

But soon the blissful evasion from reality was over, and Jorah found himself alone, naked, with his seed on his chest. The terrible sensation of being split between the pleasure he had just felt and the fact that the only warmth he would like to feel on his chest would be Daenerys’ head, looking for some rest and tenderness after one of their lovemaking sessions.

He missed her, in every possible way. He missed his Queen as a knight and as a politician; he missed the woman he had somehow befriended; he missed that what he had never had but he still wanted and dreamed of.

He also felt confused. He had wanted to come back and serve her, maybe even die in her service, acknowledging he might even die without ever seeing her again. He wished she would at least know he had given himself to her completely as an advisor and as a friend, long ago, when he had written Varys not to look for him anymore. Yet his heart’s and his body’s wishes hinted at something more than that.

It was a difficult situation…almost as difficult as the one of a big knight standing in the middle of his room looking for some piece of fabric to wipe himself clean, cursing. Fearing that someone come into his room and find him like that, he quickly grabbed his old shirt and wiped the signs of his morning ritual away, then refreshed himself and started dressing up, his heart still torn between anger and sadness.

A few slow and deep breaths restored Jorah back to a more normal state. He planned to go riding Rhaegal, and to fight a little in order to get rid of his sadness…and in order to feel some hope again.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
